


And Gáe Bolg Makes Three

by WhatTheDog



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Angst with a Happy Ending, Anniversary, Beach Sex, Blood and Violence, Body Image, Bubble Bath, Character Foil, Cute, Disney World, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Food, Forehead Kisses, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, Hot Springs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied handjob, Kissing, Light Sadism, M/M, NSFW, Neck Kissing, Pole Dancing, Rimming, Rough Sex, Singing in the Shower, Size Difference, Slow Dancing, Stalking, Suicide, Trick or Treating, Undressing, blowjob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-20 15:29:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 53,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20677676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatTheDog/pseuds/WhatTheDog
Summary: All of Chaldea thought they were an odd couple. Which, granted, they were. But that didn't change the fact that they were still a couple, through and through.A collection of Diarmuid/Cú Alter drabbles. Tags will get updated as I post more chapters, and ratings for each drabble will be listed in the chapter title (some SFW and some NSFW).





	1. Feast (Rated T)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I had an idea for a multi-chapter work, but since I can't seem to get beyond chapter one and I refuse to post anything that isn't finished, looks like I'm just going to do a collection of drabbles. A lot will be domestic fluff, might be some smut and maybe some will tackle heavier themes, but overall it's whatever nonsense occurs to me because gosh darn it, I will convince someone else to ship this rarepair!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid wants to create a spectacular meal. Cú just wants to bang. Even so, he's always down for making Diarmuid feel special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with Cú's characterization here, but I wanted to portray them as a legitimately healthy, supportive couple. I imagine that maybe they've been dating for a few months at this point, and Cú's edges have softened quite a bit under Diarmuid's influence. Also, I have this headcanon that Diarmuid is a foodie, but he's not as good a cook as Emiya and he's not as obsessed as Artoria. Anyway, hope you enjoy.

Preparing a meal shouldn’t have been a daunting task. All creatures, great and small, required nourishment, and the sheer pleasure of satiation often amounted to half of the enjoyment.

But preparing a meal for Cú Alter was a different beast altogether.

Diarmuid frowned at the faded recipe. Parts had been scratched out, little arrows pointing at various steps with helpful tips and tricks (even if many were smudged and almost illegible), and the corner had been torn off in some unfortunate incident long ago. All in all, not the easiest guide to the meal he wanted. 

He sighed, running a hand through his unruly locks for the third time in the past five minutes. If he didn’t stop soon, there would likely be a bald patch instead of a full head of dark hair. His nerves really were getting the best of him.

After one more glance at the recipe, he finally dismissed the idea. Fish and chips seemed too commonplace for the experience he was going for. Cú always claimed food was unnecessary, that Heroic Spirits didn’t require it, but Diarmuid wanted to prove there was value in its simple luxury. It was one of the biggest hurdles in their relationship. 

Perhaps a walk would clear his head. Nature always seemed like the perfect antidote to a stressful day. In what felt like no time at all, he had rayshifted to a serene forest, utterly picturesque in its foliage. It even had a babbling brook. 

He took a deep breath, breathing in the leaves and moss underneath his feet. Now on autopilot, he closed his eyes, following the distant melody of songbirds and the gentle whispering of the wind rustling the trees. If he listened closely enough, maybe they would tell him the secret to an unforgettable meal. 

The babble of the brook grew louder and louder as he walked. Eventually, the roaring water overwhelmed his other senses, and he opened his eyes to frothy white foam crashing into a rushing current. He’d arrived at a river. 

A faint ‘_sploosh _’ to his right startled him, and he whirled to face the source. Salmon. Several were leaping over a bed of rocks to travel further upstream, and he couldn’t help the smile on his face. This was perfect!

* * *

“It’s a soy maple glaze. And I roasted the potatoes with garlic and rosemary. For the green beans, just a nice sautée in olive oil, thyme, and a little bit of paprika. I hope you like it.”

Cú eyed the plate in front of him, which almost seemed to shift in the flickering candlelight. Seated at the small table in Diarmuid’s quarters, he had to awkwardly spread his legs to either side, as his knees didn’t fit underneath. He smiled at Diarmuid—a stilted, although genuine, smile—in some attempt to convey gratitude. Even if he didn’t understand the man’s obsession with typical romance, he’d still humor him. 

Sitting opposite him, Diarmuid leaned forward eagerly, eyes practically sparkling in anticipation. Cú took a sip of white wine (a slightly citrusy variant), and again contemplated where to start. After a few seconds, he realized Diarmuid wouldn’t eat without witnessing his first bite, so he took a tentative sliver of salmon. 

Not bad. It was soft and had a strange combination of sweet and savory. When he finished chewing, he rewarded Diarmuid with a brief “tastes good.” The radiant grin in response made him want to abandon the meal altogether and pin his lover to the table, but he had a feeling Diarmuid wouldn’t have been as receptive on an empty stomach. 

Bite by bite, he cleared his plate. Overall, everything was very good—aside from a couple of potatoes that were just a tad undercooked—and he listened in contentment as Diarmuid rambled on about the tips he’d received from Emiya, the proper method of catching salmon as they leaped, and the adventure he went on to find fresh rosemary. By the time he scraped up his last morsel, Diarmuid had already hopped to his feet. 

“I’ll grab the dessert! It’s bread pudding, but not a super sweet bread pudding. You know how I feel about desserts that are nothing but sugar, just absolutely cloying—”

Cú nodded along, secretly annoyed. He’d been hoping for a different kind of “dessert.” Sure, the food had been fine, but he still wasn’t totally convinced of its necessity. 

Even so, he dutifully took spoonful after spoonful of the slightly soggy bread pudding. Despite Diarmuid being a competent enough chef, dessert was always a struggle, and even as flavorful as the sauce was (some type of cardamom syrup, he recalled), it definitely ended the meal on a weak note. 

“Well?” Diarmuid prompted, bouncing one leg underneath the table. 

Cú chose his next words carefully. “That was a very nice meal. You obviously put a lot of work into it.”

Wrong answer. Diarmuid’s face fell, and he internally cringed as the man lowered his head. 

“You thought it was mediocre, didn’t you?”

“It honestly was enjoyable,” he said, more effusive than earlier, even as Diarmuid stared morosely at his empty plate.

“But it didn’t impress you.” Diarmuid glumly ran a finger over his napkin. “You still don’t think it’s worth dedicating an evening to it.”

Accurate, but this situation required more tact than the blunt truth. He needed to be encouraging and supportive. Which, unfortunately, was not exactly his forte. 

Again, he considered several options for a response. Scáthach’s advice popped into his mind, from back when he’d first started dating Diarmuid, about the key to any relationship being active listening and addressing his partner’s concerns. Also, “_he’s too good for you so don’t screw this up, you idiot!_” Wise words.

“Maybe I’m not as enamored as you are,” he began, slowly rising from his chair and crossing over to Diarmuid’s side, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy what you make or that I don’t admire your enthusiasm.” He rested a hand on the pauldron-less shoulder. “Any endeavor of yours is worthwhile, whether or not it's a success.”

Diarmuid still didn’t raise his head. He continued fiddling with the napkin, nearly wearing a hole in its surface, before he suddenly brightened. He looked up at Cú, grinning from ear to ear. “All this means is I just have to work harder!”

Cú blinked. “No, that’s not—”

“You’ll see.” Gripping Cú’s hand, Diarmuid pulled himself to his feet. “I’ll keep practicing, and eventually I’ll make something so exquisite that even you will have to admit it's amazing.” He nodded again, sealing his own personal promise, much to Cú’s bafflement. “This is just a small setback. I may have lost the battle, but I will win the war!”

“Glad you've got a goal." Cú started to rub circles on his shoulder. "Now why don't we make this a truly memorable evening?”

Diarmuid had no complaints there. And as they commenced their exuberant round of lovemaking on the too-small bed in the back of Diarmuid’s quarters, Cú couldn’t help but think that even if food wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, he still got to have a feast truly worth savoring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to message me, my tumblr is batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	2. Heavy Lifting (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cú falls asleep in the lounge. Diarmuid will be his knight in shining armor and carry him off to bed. If he can lift him, that is. Which is a big if.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I giggled the entire time writing this. I hope you enjoy.

What a predicament he’d found himself in.

Slowly, Diarmuid pushed the heavy arm off of him, listening carefully for any changes in Cú’s breathing. None that he could detect. Once freed, he stood and stretched, arms raised high above his head. The motion brought a certain satisfaction, but a glance down at the couch brought far more. With his head back and mouth slightly open, the intimidating berserker didn’t appear so intimidating. Instead, he looked like an overgrown puppy who’d passed out where he sat. 

Which wasn’t far from the truth. 

Cú had made it no secret that the mission had been an exhausting one. He’d been on the frontlines the entire time, and had taken quite a few hits. The first thing he had wanted to do upon arriving back in Chaldea was sit down, an unusual activity for him on any given day. It was truly a testament to his fatigue when he’d ended up falling asleep in the lounge. 

But his lack of energy wasn't the only issue; the real problem was what to do with him. Under no circumstances would Diarmuid allow his lover to suffer the torment of a cramped neck, yet he also didn’t want to wake him from his much needed rest. What was the solution?

He rubbed his temples, sighing as the obvious answer presented itself: he was going to carry Cú to his bed. Thankfully, the berserker’s quarters weren’t that far away, but it still seemed a daunting distance. He was easily half the man’s size!

Scrutinizing the sleeping figure, Diarmuid tried to think of a game plan. Perhaps a bridal carry? He bent down, worming one arm underneath Cú’s legs while his other slipped behind his back. No such luck. The man was way too big to fit comfortably in that position. Time for Plan B. 

Very carefully, he pushed on Cú’s side until he lay horizontal on the couch instead of upright with his back against the cushion. Draping the large black tail over his shoulder, Diarmuid struggled to scoop the rest of him up. It was not going well. He heaved and strained, his veins nearly popping out of his arms. Panting, he stopped for a moment, glaring at the still-comatose Cú. 

He wasn’t giving up that easily. Again, he bent down (_l__ift with your knees and not your back_, he reminded himself) and slid his arms underneath Cú. With a muted grunt, he finally managed to hoist the man up, only to unceremoniously let him sag to the floor. Defeated, he sank as well, now both of them a misshapen pile of poor decisions. 

Somehow Cú still remained asleep. Diarmuid would ponder this mystery another day, as for now he just silently cursed to himself. Why did gravity have to be a thing? On the floor, he would have to lift Cú much higher than from the couch. 

Freeing himself from the tangle of limbs, he rearranged Cú into a slightly more comfortable position. When finished, he stood and paced, psyching himself up yet again. No more half-assing it. He was doing it this time. 

Crouched down once more, he attempted his task in increments. First, he lifted Cú’s head (as gently as he could to avoid waking him), then he moved to his neck, then his shoulders. Soon, he had the entire torso supported—a not-unimpressive feat—and had started on his lower half. 

This proved to be quite the disaster. 

The tail kept getting in the way, not to mention the strange spiky protrusions erupting from Cú’s legs. None of this even factored in Cú’s weight. Before he knew it, Diarmuid was once again sweating and cursing, every muscle screaming in protest. He paused, breathing hard, counting down from three. Once he reached zero, he’d give it his all. 

Three.

Two. 

One.

“What are you doing?”

He nearly leaped back at the question. Even so, he still stared dumbfounded down at Cú’s quizzical expression. 

“I…I’m trying to carry you to your bed.” 

“You look like you’re about to have an aneurysm.”

Heat rose in his cheeks. “I’m not, it’s just you’re… very heavy.”

Cú snorted. He sat up, expression quickly shifting from quizzical to amused. “I’m aware. Which is why I’m so confused at your antics. Why didn’t you just wake me up?”

The heat in Diarmuid’s cheeks only grew more intense. “I…” He trailed off. Suddenly his grand gesture seemed silly and impulsive. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

The rumbling chuckle jarred him into sitting back on his heels. Before he could protest, Cú swept him up in his arms bridal-style, a huge toothy grin sending his heart pounding in his ears. Capturing his mouth in an almost-brutal kiss, Cú nipped his lower lip, just gentle enough not to break the skin. When they separated, the red eyes practically gleamed. 

“Next time, why don’t you leave the heavy lifting to me?”

Diarmuid could only nod, face now entirely scarlet. Only after he’d been safely deposited in Cú’s bed, tucked underneath a blanket with the berserker wrapped around him, did his embarrassment disappear. 

He’d figure it out next time. Just you wait, Cú. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	3. Shatter Like Glass (Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cú was never meant for tender kisses and loving words. It was why he needed to end his relationship. Monsters weren't worthy of such things. 
> 
> Fortunately for him, Diarmuid is dead set on proving him wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M for discussion of some heavier themes. There's a part of me that hates painting Medb in a strictly negative light (don't get me wrong, she did a lot of bad things, but by myth interpretation she's also a victim). However, I wanted angst and hurt/comfort, so here ya go.

It was actually disheartening that Diarmuid always tried to kiss him after sex. 

The action itself wasn’t the problem. It was the_ way _he tried to do it. He was fine with their open-mouthed displays of passion, complete with plenty of tongue and heavy breathing, their fingers tangled in each other’s hair. No, it was only when all was said and done, when Diarmuid would give him that adorably crooked smile, then lean in ever so slowly to press their lips together. That’s when he would jerk. That’s when it was unacceptable.

No matter how many times he’d snarl and kick Diarmuid out, the man still tried. Again and again. He’d look up at him with bright eyes, whisper some sweet nothing, and cup his face. Soft. Gentle. _ Loving. _

He couldn’t stand it. Too much. It was all too much. 

Sometimes he became angry with himself. Diarmuid clearly adored him—for some godforsaken reason—yet he wouldn’t let their relationship bloom to any kind of fruition. “This is only about sex,” he’d growl, in a tone that never seemed to deter him. There was always an attempt. Always.

Why? Why was he so adamant on showing this affection? Cú had done everything in his power to get it to stop. But Diarmuid was relentless. He never complained about the harsh words, never voiced any displeasure when denied. Just silent acceptance and an unwavering resolve in his foolish quest.

He didn’t understand. How could he understand? He was radiant and joyful, practically perfect in every way. He wasn’t broken and defiled, a machine built only for bloodlust and Medb’s twisted libido. In all honesty, Cú should have broken it off long ago. He shouldn’t have let Diarmuid pursue him. 

Stupid. That’s all it was. A stupid desire for something he was never meant to have. It was why he would end this facade tonight. Finally, things would be the way they were supposed to be. 

Diarmuid caught up with him after the mission. Like usual, he fired off rapid questions, eagerly awaiting the curt, one-word responses. So attentive. So wholesome. It took all of Cú's willpower to endure the sham of a conversation, secretly bracing himself for what would happen next. 

As the evening drew to a close, Diarmuid followed him into his quarters. He tensed as the dark-haired man moved closer for an embrace. 

“We can’t do this anymore.”

Diarmuid blinked. “Hmm?”

“This… we can’t…” Cú gestured vaguely. “We have to stop seeing each other.”

“Oh.” 

The crestfallen gaze actually elicited a pang of guilt. He shook his head to clear it. “You knew this had to end eventually.”

“Why?”

Cú frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Why does this have to end?” Diarmuid raised his head, eyes glimmering in the low light. “Sure, we’re different, but we enjoy each other’s company. We make a good team. Master even said so—”

“Don’t bring her into this,” Cú snarled. He pursed his lips. “I’m not going to argue with you. Either you leave here, or I will make you leave.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said no.” Diarmuid crossed his arms. “I don’t believe this is what you actually want.”

The sneer was involuntary. Cú moved closer, towering over the other man, who didn’t waver in his stance. “I wasn’t aware you were a clairvoyant.”

“I’m not. But I am observant.”

“And what, pray tell,” Cú spat, “have you observed?”

“You, of course.” Diarmuid’s face softened. “That look of hesitation you get when I try to hold your hand. The longing in your eyes whenever I tell you how much I want to be with you. That pain you hold onto so tightly whenever I try to get just a little too close.” He reached up and touched Cú’s face in that way he hated, the way that made him feel like glass about to shatter. “You want all those things so badly. But you won’t let yourself have them because you’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” Cú said, but there was a tremor in his voice. Even though he stood over a head taller than Diarmuid, he suddenly felt very small. 

“You’re afraid of what you’ll find.” The thumb stroked his cheek, a gentle circle, slow and methodical. “All this time you’ve convinced yourself your nothing but her tool, nothing but a shell of a person. And you’re afraid that if you let me in, I’ll prove you right.”

Cú’s breath caught in his throat. He pushed the hand off his face. “That’s not it. I don’t need—”

“Of course you don’t need me.” That dark and haunting smile, the beautiful one reserved only for him, lit up Diarmuid’s perfect features. “But you want me. And I want you too. I love you, Cú. Despite your best efforts, I love you. And I know if you looked inside yourself, if you shoved all your preconceived notions and fears off to the side, you’d find that you love me too.”

He shattered. Too much. It was all too much.

With a gasp, he recoiled, the previous touch suddenly like acid on his skin. Empty. Just empty promises. Exactly like hers, nothing more than a lie meant to absolve guilt. He’d lost count of the number of times she’d said similar words. But it didn’t make them true. It didn’t make him any less fucking _ broken. _

Without meaning to, he found himself sitting on the floor. Diarmuid crouched next to him, just a couple feet away, his hands folded together. How long had they been like this?

Cú took a shuddering breath. His lungs felt constricted, like a vice held them in its grip. He turned toward Diarmuid’s sad smile. “I don’t know what you hope to gain,” he said bitterly. “But I doubt it was this.”

“I don’t hope to gain anything.” The crouch morphed into a cross-legged sit. “I just hate watching you force yourself to suffer.”

“Suffering is part of life.”

“Yes, but so is joy. And friendship.” Diarmuid scooted ever so slightly closer to him. “And love. That’s what makes life worth living.”

“Those things don’t matter. I only live to serve Master now.”

Diarmuid shook his head. “No, you don’t. She’s even said so herself. You’re her friend.”

“I’m her tool.”

He sighed. “Do tools give their masters presents on White Day?”

“A holiday custom.”

“Do tools risk their life for the sake of others?”

“If it was necessary, yes. It's my job as a Servant to lay down my life for my Master.”

“But you’ve gone above and beyond,” Diarmuid protested. “You gave her a gift unprompted. You’ve been offended on her behalf—”

“All things expected of me.”

“Medb expected those things, too.”

Cú had no answer to that. He just continued to watch Diarmuid, who crept even closer. 

“I will leave you alone,” Diarmuid whispered, “on one condition.” He kneeled in front of Cú, amber eyes softer than honey. “Just let me kiss you. One time. Not out of passion, or lust, or anything like that. Just a small kiss. And if you hate it, I will stop and never bother you again.”

Again, Cú’s chest tightened. He weighed his options, hating how patient and caring Diarmuid looked, as if he wasn’t facing a hideous imitation of the Child of Light. “Fine,” he snapped. “But be quick about it.”

Diarmuid didn’t listen. Instead of a brief peck, he cupped Cú’s face like earlier. Then slowly, tenderly, he leaned forward, mouth only slightly parted as he connected their lips. 

It was like all tension dissolved. The vice grip holding Cú’s lungs dissipated, an involuntary sigh escaping as all of his muscles melted into the simple, yet overwhelming, sensation. A paradox of a gesture, both warm and cool and sweet and bitter, everything all together, an amalgamation amounting to everything Diarmuid could convey. 

It took him a moment to realize the man had drawn back. Sluggishly, he opened his eyes, lips still tingling from the experience. “Can you do that again?” 

The sheer joy on Diarmuid’s face was sweet enough to give him a toothache. “Of course,” he breathed, then fulfilled the request, just as wonderful and indulgent as the first time. 

“That was nice,” Cú mumbled when it ended.

“It was.” Diarmuid pressed their foreheads together. “It really was.”

Despite his best efforts, Cú started to tremble. He sucked in a breath, painfully aware of his own body. He never felt like this with Medb. It had always been mindless. Nothing but a carnal escape from his other duties, a chance to tap into his bestial side. He’d learned to go numb, learned he only existed for her purposes, learned the fleeting pleasure left him hollow afterward. When he’d met Diarmuid, he’d simply performed the same part. Don’t think. Just act. Spur of the moment rapture was all he knew. 

But this was so much deeper. If he had shattered before, now he was slowly being torn apart, piece by piece. It hurt, almost unbearably so, but he’d be lying if he said he wanted it to stop. Every crack felt like a necessary sacrifice, like an ugly scar torn off to reveal new possibilities underneath. There were fingers running through his hair, and a constant mantra of “_I love you _” in his ear, and before he knew it, he was holding Diarmuid close to him, burying his nose in the dark hair and repeating the words over and over as well. 

“Do you still want me to go?” Diarmuid asked long after the shadows on the floor had completely shifted in position. 

“No.” Cú hugged him tighter. “I don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next drabble will be pure fluff. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	4. Little Spoon (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cú wants to be the little spoon for once. Diarmuid has to figure out how to make that work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, DW can claim all they want that Cú Alter is the same height and weight as regular Cú, but I throw all that nonsense out the window. That man is like 7 1/2 feet tall and built like a monster truck, and you can't convince me otherwise. 
> 
> Anyway, this was kind of dumb. Enjoy.
> 
> EDIT: OMG, the lovely Kuma drew me fanart. LOOK AT THIS [BEAUTY](https://ibb.co/crQVp9g)! IT'S INCREDIBLE!  


“Wait, stop.” 

Diarmuid did as he was told, sitting up to face Cú’s pensive frown. “Yes?”

“It’s just… well…” Cú idly picked at one of the sheets on the bed. “You know I’m not the fondest of cuddling.”

“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to.” Diarmuid started to get up. “I’m sorry if I’m impos—”

“That’s not what I mean!” Cú’s frown morphed into a scowl. “It’s just that I’m always the big spoon. I…” He suddenly appeared sheepish. “I’d like to reverse things for once.”

Diarmuid took a moment to figure out the logistics for this. He wasn’t a small man, but next to Cú he appeared absolutely puny. That wasn’t even taking into account the spiked tail that always seemed to eat up half the bed. Hoo boy. Not the easiest request.

He scratched the top of his head. “I guess… if that’s what you want”—he flashed a smile—“then I’ll do my best!”

Certainly his tone was more optimistic than how he actually felt. He waited for Cú to lie down, then crawled over him, landing in a rather undignified sprawl of limbs. Composing himself, he flipped around to face Cú's sculpted backside, inching forward slowly, desperate not to set off the volatile tail. 

Briefly, he admired the architecture of the various muscle groups in front of him, the pinnacle of anatomic perfection. Should he ever get summoned, Archimedes would have a field day calculating this surface area. Diarmuid normally spent his time checking out Cú’s chest and abdomen; apparently he’d been missing out on this view. 

But back to his mission. He warily eyed the tail. That definitely posed the biggest challenge: spikes, size, completely in the way… yeah, he had his work cut out for him. Fortunately, the rest of Cú’s armor came off, but the barbed appendage was there to stay.

Again, he inched forward, awkwardly attempting to wrap his legs around Cú’s middle. This left him somewhat straddling the tail, precariously nestled in-between the broad back and one of the spikes. A little nerve-wracking, but hopefully he wouldn’t shift during the night. He buried his nose into a sea of blue hair, smelling of smoke and earth rather than salt, and a soft “_hmm _” from Cú let him know his efforts were appreciated. With his arms now secured around the torso—at least to the best of his abilities—he finally allowed himself to relax. 

This wasn’t so bad. Sure, perhaps not quite as comfortable as he would have liked, but he could manage. 

The tail twitched, and Diarmuid sucked in a breath. One of the spikes dug into his thigh, and he hurriedly scooted upward, his head now higher than Cú’s. To save some face, he used the opportunity to plant a kiss on the top of the blue hair, and was immediately rewarded with a contented chuckle. 

He started to close his eyes when the tail shifted again. It curled back, slithering around his torso until his middle was completely enveloped. “Cú—”

“Shh, now we both get to hold each other.” The berserker tilted his head back, just far enough so that Diarmuid could see the amused sparkle in the red eyes. “Comfy?”

No, but Cú didn’t wait for a response before settling his head on the pillow. His breathing slowed, and Diarmuid realized he wasn’t getting a say in this matter.

Sighing, he rested his chin against Cú’s head. Looks like he wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna deliver on some smut for the next drabble. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	5. Crossing Blades (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out Cú's request for another round in the training simulator is a little... unorthodox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hohoho, this was fun. Poor Diarmuid. I'm so mean to him.

Diarmuid readied his weapons. The wolf-creature lunged at him, and he leaped to the side, breaking his fall with a roll. Before the animal could even turn around, he’d already skewered it with Gáe Dearg. 

To his left, Cú hurled one one of the creatures to the ground, then threw a second into the tree, the force enough to crack the trunk. A particularly brave specimen latched itself to his leg, and Diarmuid rushed forward. With just a slash, there was a yelp and then nothing. The wolf was no more. 

Cú gave him a nod as thanks. Scanning the surroundings, he lowered his spear. “I think that’s the end of the simulation.”

“Seems like it.” 

The forest faded away to the sterile interior of the training simulator. Dismissing his weapons, Diarmuid wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. That hadn’t been the most challenging quest, but it hadn’t been easy, either. 

He started toward the door but stopped when Cú grabbed his wrist. “Hmm?” He glanced backward. 

“One more round. I’m feeling pretty fired up.”

He frowned. “It’s getting kind of late. I promised Artoria we’d get dinner tonight.”

“Hurm.” Cú released him. “Shame. I made this simulation myself.”

That piqued Diarmuid’s interest. He raised an eyebrow, now facing the berserker instead of the exit. Plenty of the other Servants liked to make personalized simulations, but Cú had never been the creative type. He didn’t express himself through art or writing, but rather through physicality, something Diarmuid had learned right at the beginning of their relationship. In fact, had learned very, very _ well. _

“How long is it going to take?”

Cú snorted. “I have no idea. That’s dependent on you.”

“Why me?” At the pointed look, Diarmuid sighed. “Fine, keep your secrets.” He rubbed the back of his neck. The invitation sounded tempting, but unfortunately, being rude didn’t. “I really don’t want to keep Artoria waiting…”

“She always eats beforehand anyway.”

True. His resolve wavered. “All right.” He stood on his toes and planted a quick kiss on Cú’s cheek. “Take us away.”

The air rippled as the simulation started, the muted colors growing brighter and brighter. Diarmuid shielded his eyes, squinting at the endless hue of white and… blue? He lowered his arm. 

A gorgeous sandy beach stretched in front of him. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying out their signature call, while waves gently crashed into the bank. Salt filled his nostrils and a breeze ruffled his hair. This wouldn’t have been his first guess for a simulation Cú would have made. It was almost… romantic.

He shot the berserker a wry smile. “Let me guess… it’s some kind of sea monster?”

Cú returned the smile. “No.” His brow suddenly furrowed. “Well… I guess technically.””

“Sounds good.” Diarmuid strode toward the water. “Let’s get this party star—”

A blow swept him clean off his feet. He yelped, landing flat on his back as he blinked up at a grinning Cú. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Curruid Coinchenn was technically a sea monster.”

His mouth dropped open. “I’m fighting _ you? _”

Cú didn’t respond. He just rushed forward, spear aimed straight at Diarmuid’s chest. He rolled to the side, back on his feet in an instant. Cú had already flanked his right, and he barely blocked the oncoming strike. Again, another assault, and he found himself down on one knee, teeth gritted, his arms shaking from the punishment of holding off the cursed spear. 

_ I just have to time this right. _

Another clash, a shower of sparks, and Diarmuid charged. He leaped, both spears at the ready for the finishing blow. 

The tail hit him hard enough to knock the wind right out of his lungs. He gasped, coughing with his face pressed into the sand, his entire body pinned by Cú. 

“Good try,” came the almost monotone voice behind him.

He coughed again. “You’re a scoundrel.”

“My, my. What courage, insulting the one who has you pinned.”

“Wow, Cú, you’re such a swell guy,” Diarmuid said sarcastically. “Now let me up.”

“That’s too easy.” Cú leaned over and whispered in a devilish tone, “We’re not done sparring yet.”

Diarmuid groaned. “Haha. Very funn—” 

His breath hitched in his throat. One of Cú’s hands began kneading his thigh, while the other had slipped underneath him to lightly tease the base of his cock. To his chagrin, it was already starting to respond. 

He wriggled helplessly. “Cú, come on. There’s sand _everywhere._” The weight on his back only increased as Cú leaned over. “I have dinner plans! I told you about that, and—_mmm!_”

A moan escaped his lips as the hand on his cock grew more aggressive, Cú now trailing kisses down the back of his neck. “Cú,” he choked out, biting his lip as it came out far breathier than anticipated.

“You’re free to go to dinner,” Cú purred, “as soon as you win.” He nipped Diarmuid’s earlobe. “But you’ll have to work for it. We can’t have me patronizing you by making it an easy fight, hmm?”

His eyes glazed over. Even through the fabric, the hand on his cock was working magic. Part of him wanted to just continue to lie there and be tortured, but he still had some sense of responsibility.

With a shake of his head, he pushed back against Cú’s weight. “Really, we can do this after—”

The tip of the tail wrapped around his head, sealing off his lips, and he let out a garbled cry of protest.

“You talk too much.” Again, Cú kissed his neck. “You should focus more on your attack than your choice of words.” 

Diarmuid rested his head against the sand, fuming. Even rubbing against the coarse granules didn’t release the tail from its spot, and with mounting dread and excitement, he felt cool air against his skin as Cú slowly removed his armor.

Like earlier, he wriggled, attempting to move closer to his spear. _ Just a little farther. _He panted, the tail around his mouth making it harder to breathe. A tongue ran down his back, and he shivered, every hair—as well as something else—standing to attention.

_ Fuck. _ He clenched a fist, the tongue now joined by teeth that were sure to be leaving marks, marks that were getting closer and closer to—

He yelped. It was audible even with the living gag, and he scowled at the chuckle he received in response. 

“Sensitive there, huh?”

_ You’d make a noise too if someone bit your ass! _ Digging a knee into the sand, he placed a hand flat against the grainy surface, his muscles straining even with less of him pinned. He went slack at the feel of the lips, holding back his moan as Cú’s weight shifted to allow him full access to his behind. Every limb was gradually turning to jelly, and that hand on his cock was still milking him for all his worth, and the sun on his back and the breeze in his hair and _ that tongue. _

He palmed the sand, each breath short and fast. The texture fell away from his lower half as Cú lifted him, still bathing his opening and getting him ready, as if his cock wasn’t leaking like a faucet and his face wasn’t hotter than an oven. His muffled groan was met with a firm slap on his ass, and he arched his back. 

“You don’t seem to want to win very badly.”

_ Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! _He hated how hard he was breathing now. Again, he tried to push himself upright, but he couldn’t seem to get a grip on the sand. He panted, gritting his teeth as Cú spread his legs.

Another touch on his cock, as light as a butterfly, had him involuntarily grinding his hips against Cú’s. “Patience, pet.” The berserker’s weight shifted again. “You haven’t completely given up yet.”

He was getting close. With each passing second, surrender was looking more and more appealing. After one last desperate thrash, he went limp. _ Sorry, Artoria. Guess I’m going to be late. _

He didn’t even try to muffle his cry when Cú entered him. Panting, he dug his nails into his palm, nearly oblivious to everything but the sheer rapture of the thick cock thrusting into him. It actually took him a moment to realize the tail had left his face and those sighs of pleasure were his. Cú grabbed a fistful of his hair, pushing him into the sand, and he wondered what was wrong with him that he was absolutely loving it.

With another shift in weight, he realized Cú was sitting back on his heels. “Beg me to fuck you,” came a voice that could only be described as a growl.

“Cú, please!” Diarmuid gasped, arching his back. “Please fuck me! Don’t stop!” 

He didn’t care if he sounded pathetic or needy, and apparently Cú didn’t either. Again, he was impaled, the moment sending stars into his vision. _ Oh God... _

Time itself became meaningless to him. The strokes grew longer, his moans turned to screams, and the roar of the ocean dissolved into nothingness. His balls clenched and his entire world went white as both he and Cú climaxed. 

It took him a little while to come down from his high. Cú rested against him, panting, now completely on top of him. He rolled off and helped Diarmuid move to a sitting position. When they looked around, the room was no longer a sandy beach but rather the less than sterile training simulator.

Cú pulled Diarmuid into his lap and nuzzled his neck. Wrapping his arms around the berserker, he returned the embrace.

“May I go to dinner now?”

“Yes.” Cú kissed his forehead. “You are free to go.”

He didn’t get a chance to say anything back because a disgruntled “_Oy! _” caught both of their attentions. Cú’s Lancer counterpart stood at the entrance, beet-red and glaring, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“You guys better clean this place up. Dis-GUSTANG!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will hopefully have the next drabble up soon. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	6. Shower Tunes (Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting back from a mission, Cú plans to surprise Diarmuid in the shower. Only he's the one getting a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooooaaaaa, two in one day? Yup!
> 
> Can't believe I have a perfectly good shower sex prompt here yet it's SFW. Honestly, in the future I probably will write some smut of them in the shower, but for now I'm trying to have a nice assortment of fluff, heavier stuff, and smut. 
> 
> Also, please don't expect this upload schedule in the future. I'm on break now, recovering from a wisdom tooth extraction, and I've got nothing but time. Once I go back to clinics, these won't be near as often. 
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy this silly drabble.

Steam and the faint sound of running water greeted him as he stepped into the communal showers. While it would have been his first destination after a mission regardless—considering he was covered head to toe in all manner of viscera and inorganic material—this time, Cú had a special reason for visiting. 

Due to good fortune on their side or bad luck on the enemies’, the last mission with Master had ended earlier than expected. As soon as he’d arrived back in Chaldea, Cú had made a beeline to surprise a certain someone. Someone he was positive would also be using this facility. Diarmuid, ever a creature of habit, tended to spar at exactly the same time every afternoon. Afterward, he would clean himself in a private stall; only today it wouldn't be so private. 

Cú grinned to himself as he drew closer to the designated area. Boots, armor, and buckles lay in a neat pile on a bench outside, and he had to stifle his snort of amusement. Even though Servants could dematerialize their clothing, Diarmuid always seemed to prefer getting undressed in an organic manner. Perhaps it made him feel more like when he was alive. Cú never cared about that nonsense, but for the lancer, it was just another endearing quirk. 

In a flash, his own armor disappeared. He puffed up his chest, ready to make his grand entrance, when the first few words of “_The Rocky Road to Dublin _” carried out. 

He cocked his head. Who would have guessed Diarmuid liked to sing in the shower? Or that he was a tenor? 

Leaning against the wall outside the stall, he closed his eyes. Music wasn’t his favorite thing in the world (not much interested him in the first place), but he had to admit Diarmuid’s voice combined with the acoustics of the room were pleasing to the ear. 

“_Took a drop of pure to keep me heart from shrinking, Thats the Paddy's cure when'er he's on for drinking, To hear the lassies smile, laughing all the while… _”

On and on, the verses went. Idly tapping his foot, Cú continued to listen, a smile involuntarily forming as Diarmuid’s enthusiasm built with each line until he was practically belting instead of singing. 

When the song ended, Cú started to make his way around the wall. However, he stopped as a new one started. 

“_Yo, I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want, So tell me what you want, what you really, really want _—”

This time, he had to actually cover his mouth to muffle his laughter. He had no idea what the song was, but if Diarmuid’s exuberance was anything to go by, he certainly did. From the sound of it, it was about the requirements for being the singer’s lover, the main one being “_get with [their] friends. _” Hopefully Diarmuid wouldn’t take this advice to heart; besides him, Cú wasn’t fond of most people. 

The water slowed to a trickle as the song reached its conclusion. Cú perked up. He straightened, peeking around the edge of the wall. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see the entirety of the stall, but he could make out a square of green that was presumably Diarmuid’s towel. 

“Truly a stirring performance.” He stepped around the wall only to be met with a horrified stare. He frowned. “You don’t appear particularly pleased to see me.”

“How… how—” Diarmuid swallowed, and his towel slipped from his grasp as his face began to resemble a tomato. “How much did you hear?”

“All of it.”

The shade of red only intensified.

Cú shook his head, moving forward to envelop the smaller man in a hug. “Oh, don’t be like this.” He ignored Diarmuid’s protests. “I thought you’d be surprised.”

“I am—_ugh! _—very surprised.” Diarmuid tried to shove his arms away to no avail. “It’s just—” He scowled. “I just got clean and now you’re getting… gunk all over me!”

“Oh no,” Cú said in a completely unconvincing tone. He brought Diarmuid closer and kissed him, long and slow. Drawing back, he brought their hips together, purring, “Looks like you’ll just have to take another shower.”

Diarmuid nodded, expression slightly glazed. “O-okay.” He blushed again. “Just... on one condition.”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t tell anyone about this,” he whispered.

Cú chuckled and kissed him again. “I promise.” Shoving Diarmuid into the stall, he stepped in after him. “But only if you sing for me.”

He’d already turned on the water by the time Diarmuid’s sputtered complaints reached his ears. Closing his eyes, he let the stream wash away the mission’s filth. 

What a perfect welcome home surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one will probably be a bit of a longer one. I've already explored some of Cú's issues in Shatter Like Glass, so I want to do something similar with Diarmuid. As always, thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	7. Better Than Me (Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saber Diarmuid is better in every way. He's stronger, wittier, hell, even better-looking. As it all starts to get under Lancer's skin, he's faced with the ultimate dilemma: how do you compete with yourself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the heck, this is sad. I wanted the ending to be a lot happier, and I just got... this. I don't even know if that's a good ending. All I wanted to do was explore Diarmuid's issues, sheesh, not go full angst. 
> 
> Oh well. Hope you guys like it.

He had no idea how to feel about Saber Diarmuid.

It was him. In a sense. A bronzed, buffer version of him. He had the same smile, the same laugh, the same mannerisms. But whereas Lancer never seemed to stick out, it was like Saber had a spotlight on him. He commanded the attention of everyone in the room. Always loud and boisterous and charismatic and _brash_. Often, Diarmuid would watch the man (himself, no less!) and wonder what alternate reality he must have emerged from. 

Occasionally he'd go further than watching. He'd strike up a conversation, just to figure out what trait they shared besides appearance. 

“So you’re my Lancer counterpart,” Saber would say, a smile lighting up his somehow even more radiant features. “Tell me, how’s Chaldea been treating you?”

“It’s been good.” Diarmuid smiled back at him, not as big or brightly, but still a smile, nonetheless. “Master picked me for a couple of challenge quests recently. That was fun. Cú and I were actually on a team together for one of the—”

“Ah yes, the blue lancer. He’s a delightful fellow.”

Diarmuid shook his head. “No, not that one.” He smiled faintly. “I was actually talking about Cú Alter. My partner.”

Saber cocked his head. “Your partner?”

“Yes. We’ve been dating for close to a year now.”

“Oh!” His mouth dropped open. “The spiky fellow? With the tail?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Well, good for you.” He wrinkled his nose. “Can’t say I understand the appeal, but I’m glad he makes you happy.”

_ He doesn’t even find Cú attractive. How is this me? _

Before he could muse any further, Fionn accosted them. “Hello, Diarmuid and… Diarmuid!” He shook Saber’s hand. “Glad to see you in Chaldea.”

Saber nodded in spite of Diarmuid’s strained smile. “Indeed. My Lancer self here was just telling me about going on challenge quests with Master.”

Fionn laughed, nudging him. “Oh yes, he went on quite a few. Looks like that Love Spot still packs a punch.”

He swallowed. Deep inside him, that tiny thorn, that damned barb wormed its way into his heart, piercing and spreading. “That’s not why she picked m—”

“Oh, Fionn, you magnificent bastard,” Saber laughed, “she was just being friendly.” He nudged him right back. “Still blaming all your love troubles on someone else, I see.”

Both Diarmuid and Fionn gaped at him. The tone wasn’t malicious, it was actually downright joking, but even so, Diarmuid couldn’t help his twinge of admiration. He would never have the guts to say something like that. Especially to his Lord. No matter how much the thorn pricked, he just buried it deeper.

With Fionn still sputtering, Saber shot Diarmuid a wink and then waltzed off, humming a tune. Without a care in the world. Picture perfect. 

No. Just perfect. 

And as time went by, Diarmuid became more and more convinced of this. He’d be getting ready in the morning, wishing for the umpteenth time that Cú would remember not to leave his armor all over the floor, when he’d look in the mirror and think about how Saber’s abdomen was quite a bit more defined or his jawline was a tad more chiseled or the black luster of his hair was more apparent or he had a better smile or brighter eyes or a straighter posture or a deeper voice and on and on and on.

It was eating him alive. Saber did better on every quest. He killed more enemies. He won more battles. He had more friends. He was better liked. Better respected. 

_ Better. _

He'd been having a bad day when he finally cracked. During the mission, he was defeated by one of the enemy monsters, and had to rematerialize when Master and the rest headed back to Chaldea. But Saber made it through. Saber didn’t need assistance. 

Master didn’t say anything, didn’t seem annoyed, but the failure nestled beside the thorn. _ She won’t bring me next time. Just him. I don’t know why she even brought me in the first place. _

Trudging back to his quarters, he ignored any friendly greetings. Not in the mood. Some other time. Just let him stew in his own self-loathing. 

All of this was bad enough. But it wasn’t enough to make him snap. No, the straw that broke the camel’s back was when he stepped through the door, he nearly tripped over part of Cú’s ridiculous get-up. The man in question lay sprawled on the too-small bed, and he lazily sat up as Diarmuid rubbed his shin. 

“Well, well.” He leaned forward. “The returning hero. How did it—”

“Why can’t you EVER pick up any of your fucking stuff!?” 

It just exploded out of him. Cú actually recoiled, eyebrows knitted together, but the avalanche had only just begun. 

“I’ve told you so, so, so many times… and you just keep doing it! All over the floor! Because you know I’ll pick it up!” He was pacing now, adrenaline actually starting to pump. “And the work doesn’t end there! No, if I want a romantic evening, I have to do all the heavy lifting. You can just sit back and give a couple compliments because you know I’ll fuck you regardless, so why bother putting any effort into your relationship? And you don’t have to spend every single day at the training simulator, no, you just know Master will pick you. And Fionn doesn’t always poke fun at any of your previous conquests, bringing up painful memories that you just have to pretend is all part of a joke, oh, he leaves you well enough alone because you can actually give witty comebacks and you don’t need to be revived during your mission, you make it through until the end and…”

His voice cracked, and in an instant he was kneeling on the floor, holding his head in his hands. There was a wall of tears building behind his eyelids, but this was the most stupid reason in the world to cry, over a messy room, and he wouldn’t let himself cry in front of Cú, anyway. 

Still, the man in question did not say anything. Not even an apology. The silence began to get to him, and the flood released by that damned thorn slowed to a trickle as emptiness took its place, but it couldn’t be bottled back up. It was already out in the world, and suddenly he hated himself for releasing it. 

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. His shoulders shook. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s okay,” came the quiet reply.

He shook his head, prostrating himself. “No, I shouldn’t… it’s not right—” His words died and a couple of brave tears actually managed to escape. “I am a horrible knight. I shouldn’t even be called a knight.”

“That seems rather harsh.”

Again, he shook his head. “I let down my Master. I resent my Lord. I scream at my lover. I…” His voice cracked like earlier. “I am the worst version of me.”

And there it was. Finally admitting it out loud. The truth. The damn, ever-present truth. He was the inferior. The one who never should have been summoned. 

He didn’t even notice Cú move closer. The berserker lowered himself, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Diarmuid, look at me.”

He didn’t. He just trembled, wishing Cú would move away, wishing he’d go and just leave him to suffocate. 

“I said look at me.”

This tone was more commanding, almost rough, and he finally raised his head. To his surprise, Cú held a coin in-between two of his fingers.

“Heads or tails.”

“What?”

“Heads or tails. Just pick one.”

He wet his lips. “Tails.”

Cú flipped the coin, then smacked it down on the back of his hand. “Heads.” He showed it to Diarmuid. “Better luck next time.”

“What—” He shook his head yet again. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Well,” Cú sat back on his heels, “which one is better?”

Diarmuid stared. “You mean heads or tails?”

“Yes.”

“I… neither. They’re just…” He shrugged. “If I had to pick one, I’ll say heads because that’s what it landed on.”

Cú nodded. “Yes. But you admit that it’s only better because that's what landed?”

“I… suppose…”

“And yet,” Cú said, spinning the coin on his palm, “if it had landed on tails, then I would find heads to be the inferior, correct?”

Diarmuid didn’t say anything. He just watched the coin wobble and eventually fall over. 

“So,” Cú continued, “it’s not really the side that matters. They’re both just different faces of the same coin.” He placed it in Diarmuid’s palm. “If you keep getting nothing but heads, of course you’re going to find tails worthless.”

“Your analogy is flawed,” Diarmuid said bitterly. He put the coin back. “Saber is objectively stronger than me. He has more endurance. He hits harder. His… his Love Spot isn’t even active!”

“Because you choose for it to be this way.”

“I don’t choose anything—”

“You could fight just as hard and be just as strong as him. But you won’t let yourself. Your perception of your past burdens you at all times.”

He glared. “So this is actually my fault?”

“I didn’t say that.” Cú grasped his hand. “You are the adulterer, the devious scoundrel who beguiled a hapless woman into eloping from his Lord, whom he betrayed. And he is the legend, the noble hero who rescued a young girl from a forced marriage to a tyrant, whom he opposed. That is how you split yourself.” He brought Diarmuid into his arms. “Both are accurate. And yet neither are as well. Because you are two sides of the same coin, different faces, different interpretations, but both making up the whole of Diarmuid.”

Diarmuid rested his head against the broad chest. “But you’re agreeing with me. I am all of the inferior qualities.”

“I did no such thing. A different take is not necessarily of lower value. You have just arbitrarily decided one is better."

“Because it is. He is the good parts of Diarmuid”—he burrowed his head as Cú stroked his back—”and I am the leftovers.” He squeezed his eyes shut, another couple tears trickling out. “Why would you ever pick tails if the coin only lands on heads?”

A hand lifted his chin, and he opened his eyes to look up at Cú, whose expression was softer than he had ever seen. Almost painful. His clawed thumb wiped away the escaped tears, and he pressed their foreheads together.

“Because some of us are tails too.” He brushed his lips against Diarmuid’s, a whisper of a kiss. “And we prefer the side that never lands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next round will be a bit more lighthearted, I promise. 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	8. Slow Dance (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how much Diarmuid begs, Cú never wants to dance. That is, until he sees someone else making a move on his man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had another good day and cranked out two. It was fun to do some pure fluff. Thanks to the amazingly perfect Kuma, I have a couple of pictures to go along with this chapter, [here](https://ibb.co/ysZjm3t) and [here](https://ibb.co/R3RQybb).  
Plus, viceturtle drew [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/b71fb8ec401d2bac52ffe42a1da034ea/ff9279efba68fd2e-f1/s540x810/3c42b55219d2c4d3af7854147e64c5dc397a2343.jpg)!  
Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Like he did every year, Cú just sat on the sidelines. Not doing much. Mostly watching when he wasn’t zoning out. The majority of the other Servants were busy gyrating or flailing around, and he could spot Master a little ways off doing the funky chicken. 

Overhead, a large banner stretched across the center of the room, the bright letters spelling out, “_Chaldea Super Duper Dance Party 9000 XD. _” Merlin had come up with the title. Why they left him in charge of it was beyond Cú, but nobody had asked him. 

Directly underneath it, Diarmuid and Artoria looked like they were having a blast. The pair had spent the last month practicing swing dance, and it appeared to be paying off. There were plenty of dips and twirls, and even a few of the surrounding Servants occasionally paused to watch, with Cú Lancer enthusiastically cheering them on. 

They took a bow as the song came to a close. Cú briefly clapped, but he frowned as the pair hurried toward him.

“Come and dance with us!” Diarmuid said, eyes practically shimmering from excitement. 

Artoria nodded, grinning. “Yes, please come and join us!”

“You guys,” Cú Lancer drawled, “you know Oscar the Grouch here just wants to sit in his trashcan.”

Cú glared. “This is not a trashcan. It’s a chair.” He furrowed his brow. “And my name isn’t Oscar.”

The three Servants exchanged a look, giggling, before Diarmuid stepped forward. 

“Just for a little bit. Please?”

“No.”

He pouted. “You never dance with me.” Sighing, he took Artoria’s hand, and they strode back toward the dancefloor. 

Cú leaned back, ignoring his Lancer counterpart’s smug grin, and tried to make out some of the words in the current song. 

“_Wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy, Grab my glasses, I'm out the door; I'm gonna hit this city _—”

Honestly it sounded kind of obnoxious to him, but everyone else didn’t seem to think so. When the chorus hit, most of the Servants started singing along, with everyone jumping and waving their arms. Even Diarmuid and Artoria stopped their swing dance to join in, and his Lancer counterpart actually had a circle forming around him due to his shenanigans. 

He sighed. The only reason he was even here was at Diarmuid’s behest. How much longer was this going to take?

The last chords of the song faded, and a booming voice replaced it. “_Hello everyone, rawr! It’s your local Jaguar Warrior hoping you’re having a fantastic time! For the next song, grab that special someone because we’re dimming the lights and setting the mood. _”

True to her word, the lights dimmed. A slow, lilting melody started, and various Servants paired off. Cú wanted to snort as he watched Lancer chase after a reluctant Emiya. He turned his attention toward Diarmuid, expecting to see the man approaching him with a pout like earlier, but instead he found himself sitting up straight, his lip curled back in a snarl. What the fuck!?

With one hand over his heart, Diarmuid bowed to Artoria, offering his other. She accepted it, smiling, and moved closer to him, allowing him to hold her dainty waist while she rested her free hand on his shoulder. They were swaying to the music, not taking their eyes off each other, and the petite blonde actually had the nerve to rest her head against his chest!

Before he could think about the ramifications of his actions, Cú had already crossed half the room. “Ahem,” he growled. 

Artoria smiled up at him. “Yes?” she said, innocent as ever, as if Diarmuid’s hand wasn’t on her waist and she wasn’t nestled against him. “Is there something you need?”

“Get the fuck out.”

She didn’t say anything in return. Instead, she just shot Diarmuid a wink, who grinned as she practically skipped away. With her gone, Cú suddenly registered all the other Servants around, who seemed perfectly at ease with their positions and their movements, holding their partners close, while he just stood there like a large lump, staring stupidly at the still smiling Diarmuid.

“May I have this dance?” 

His mouth went dry as Diarmuid extended his hand—exactly as he had with Artoria—even though Cú wasn’t a slender girl, but rather a monster twice his size with a giant spiked tail forcing several Servants to skirt around.

“I don’t know how,” he admitted.

“That’s okay.” Diarmuid’s smile only grew brighter, apparent even in the dim lighting. “I can show you.” He took Cú’s numb hand, resting it on his waist, then clasped his other in a gentle grip. “Just follow what I do.”

In a panic, Cú glanced around, desperately trying to absorb the motions of the other dancers. Nearby, a captivated Okita and Nobu gently spun in a circle, and the display started to make him nauseous. Swallowing, he nearly jerked as he felt Diarmuid’s head rest against his chest. 

“That was Artoria’s idea, you know,” the man whispered. “She said it would work, and it did.”

He tried to follow Diarmuid’s lead as they awkwardly swayed. “Huh?”

“She said if I truly desired a dance with you, that I just had to get you jealous enough.” His eyes sparkled as he looked up. “Seems she was right.”

Dammit. He’d been duped. He sighed, not even that annoyed, because honestly the serene music and the light pressure of Diarmuid’s head and the low lighting and their hands clasped together was actually kind of nice. 

He rested his head on the lustrous dark hair below him, breathing in evergreen and a faint whiff of citrus, before closing his eyes. None of the other Servants mattered in the moment; it was as if they were the only two in the room. Just a lazy circle and their bodies pressed against each other in a close embrace. Warm. Tranquil.

When the song came to an end, it actually felt like he’d escaped a dream. He dazedly returned to reality, and a few surrounding Servants gazed at his starry-eyed state in curiosity. 

Diarmuid kissed his cheek. “Thanks for dancing with me.” A hopeful smile appeared. “Perhaps you’d like to stay for another?”

Fuck it. He returned the kiss, this time on the lips. “Sure. Might as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're ready, because next round is going to be smut. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	9. Role Reversal (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid wants to try being on top. He does... okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I was not expecting the turn this took. I just wanted to do typical smut, but I also think it's fun to show scenarios where things don't work out quite as intended. (Please do not ask how Cú lies on his back with that giant tail. I don't know. He just does). As always, hope you enjoy.

“Thank you for the exquisite dinner, Diarmuid. Whether in the kitchen or on the battlefield, you are truly a master of your craft.”

“You honor me, King of Knights. To hear my humble offerings are worthy of your praise warms my heart more than you could possibly fathom.”

Cú wanted to slam his head into the table. Listening to them go on and on was nearly enough to give him a migraine. It only added insult to injury that they’d planned this dinner for the night his mission ended.

Diarmuid’s explanation had consisted of going over their schedules, how Artoria was doing her Interlude soon and he had his own missions coming up, and this dinner was the last one available to them for a while, and he was sorry, but Cú was welcome to join them, the more the merrier, and he would make it up to him afterward. 

Whatever. He’d spent the whole time sulking as he ate his (slightly overcooked) roast beef.

Truthfully, part of his attitude stemmed from a lingering jealousy toward Artoria. She’d known Diarmuid longer, had fought by his side. She’d even watched him die. Her torment over the incident was well-known, and the stories of their joyful reunion in Chaldea had practically become legend. Apparently the two had run into each other's arms, crying and reciting the other’s name as if they would disappear if they didn’t, and the more embellished versions even had Diarmuid lift Artoria off her feet. Their bond was inseparable, and no matter how many times Diarmuid insisted it was only platonic, Cú often wondered if the two would have become lovers had he not entered the picture. 

He drummed his fingers on the table impatiently as the pair said their final farewells. With one last hug, Artoria exited. Shutting the door behind her, Diarmuid turned around, a faraway smile still present on his radiant face. 

“Sorry about that.” He redirected his smile toward Cú. “Now, welcome ho—_ mmph! _”

His statement morphed into a muffled yelp as Cú shoved him against the door, tongue already greedily savoring his mouth. One hand ran over the plane of his chest and abdomen, tugging at the green armor, while the second combed through his dark locks. 

“_Cú! _” Diarmuid gasped, unlatching his mouth from the assault. “I get that you’re eager, but slow down!” 

“This whole evening has been slow.” He ground his hips against Diarmuid’s. “I’d like to pick up the pace.”

“I haven’t even cleaned up yet!”

“The dishes will still be there in the morning,” he breathed, lightly playing his tongue over an earlobe, which elicited a satisfactory shiver of excitement. “You can do them then.”

“Cú.” 

He stopped at the tone. Meeting Diarmuid’s gaze, he wanted to sigh at the stern brow and pursed lips. 

“What did we talk about a few weeks ago?”

He groaned, taking a grudging step back. “I need to learn to respect your boundaries and heed your concerns.”

Diarmuid nodded. “Good, but what else?” At the blank stare, he sighed. “Did you eat any of the food?”

“I... yes."

“Then you can assist me with cleaning the dishes.” Diarmuid readjusted his armor, and—with a reluctant Cú in tow—cleared the table and headed down the hall to the Chaldea kitchen. 

“We’ll make the staff very happy if we wash these ourselves,” he said as they deposited cutlery and plates in the sink. “Will you grab the dish soap?”

Fuming, Cú did as he was told, then set to work scrubbing any leftover gunk. He grumbled to himself. Artoria didn’t have to clean up, and she’d eaten a lot more than he had. 

When they finished, Diarmuid stretched, every groove and curve on his torso deliciously apparent, before sidling up to Cú. “You can carry me back if you want.”

“Do your feet not work?”

He laughed. “Oh my, you are in a mood.” He slapped Cú’s ass, earning a snarl. “Come on, go be angry at me back in my quarters.”

It was hard to stay angry when walking behind him. The view wasn’t half-bad, and Diarmuid seemed to be flaunting it at every opportunity. By the time they returned to the bedroom, Cú had pretty much forgotten whatever he was supposed to be annoyed about, and instead started humming in anticipation, especially as their clothes came off. 

“Before we start,” Diarmuid purred, leaning back against the mattress as Cú eagerly clambered on top, “I thought it might be fun if we… did things a little differently this time.”

He cocked his head. “Like what?”

“You’ll see.” With a wink, Diarmuid freed himself and hopped off the bed, only to saunter closer. “Lie down for me, okay?”

An involuntary shiver passed through him as he fulfilled the request, now on his back and facing the utterly devious-looking Diarmuid, whose eyes had become molten cores, villainous and sensual. 

Crawling on top of him, the smaller man straddled his waist, gently grazing his abdomen with his fingernails. “I thought you might enjoy a different view than the one you're accustomed to.”

Indeed, he did. His arousal had already started to show, and Diarmuid teasingly rubbed his ass against it, only a light touch, but enough to make him groan. His hands started to explore the defined contours of Diarmuid’s abdomen, even drifting further south, when they were slapped away. He jerked. 

“No touching.” Those amber eyes seemed nearly aflame. “I’ll be calling the shots for this round.”

Cú raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re trying to be dominant.” He chuckled. “How adorable.”

Diarmuid tensed. Immediately the air of seduction stagnated, with him appearing more ruffled than alluring. “Look, I’m… I’m doing my best.” He dug his knees into Cú’s sides. “Just play along, okay?”

“Okay,” he purred, running one finger through the valley between his pectorals, then grinning as Diarmuid’s reddening cheeks became apparent even in the dim light. He was too cute. 

Giving a huff, Diarmuid draped himself across Cú’s torso, bringing them face to face. He lowered his head to sip and nibble on the curve of his jaw, each breath warm and tantalizing. Below, his touch ignited that familiar craving, and it only grew stronger as he began to grind his crotch against increasingly sensitive areas, skin flush against skin. Before he knew it, Cú’s breathing had grown rougher and his vision swam, filled with nothing but Diarmuid's lithe form. As awkward as the start had been, he had to admit this was now yielding results.

Sitting up, Diarmuid took one of Cú’s hands, tracing his tongue over a finger and sucking on the tip. Again, he drew it out of his mouth, gliding it along his lip before sticking it back in, the sensation oddly provocative. 

When it came out for the final time, Diarmuid leaned forward. “Should I move on to the real thing?” he said, voice low and oozing with sensuality. 

“If you want.”

The ruffled Diarmuid returned, exactly like earlier. “Can you be a little more invested?”

“Uh… I mean, fuck, yes, stick my cock in your mouth.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know if that’s any better.”

“You said be more invested.”

Running a hand through his hair, Diarmuid appeared to need a moment to get his bearings. “Okay, just… maybe stay quiet from now on?”

“I will do my best if that is what you—” He shut up at the glare. 

With his backside now facing Cú, Diarmuid turned his attention toward the main attraction. His lips encircled the head of the cock, hands at the base, coaxing it to full mast. Blood rushed south, and Cú clutched the sheets, drinking in the way the light played off Diarmuid’s back, the sinewy frame bobbing with the motion of his ministrations. 

“Keep going,” he growled inadvertently. 

Diarmuid heeded the request. He bent over, taking the whole thing in his mouth—Cú couldn't help but feel impressed. He arched his back at the sensation of being enveloped fully. Then back out, Diarmuid occasionally leaving kisses from tip to base, and making every nerve tingle in pleasure. One of his hands, perhaps unconsciously, stroked Cú's thigh in time with his mouth. His tongue played at the tip, licking up pre-cum, and then licked a streak down, down, down, to the point where Cú didn't think he could stand it. 

When he ended up accidentally bucking his hips, Diarmuid stopped. Wiping his mouth, he again straddled Cú’s waist, a smirk playing on his lips. “You ready?”

Per the earlier order, Cú remained silent. Even though they both already knew the answer, Diarmuid waited for him to nod, then hopped off the bed. There was the sound of rummaging, after which he popped up again, lube in hand. 

While Cú was no stranger to the substance, the chill still surprised him. Once suitably slick, he propped his lower half up with his tail, Diarmuid already on his knees and settling into position. There was a brief look of consternation as he gripped Cú's thighs, angling himself to better align his cock. All it took was a raised eyebrow for him to scowl and lean back. 

With how slowly and carefully he inserted a finger, it seemed like he thought Cú would break. It was difficult to resist making an impatient remark, but when another finger joined the first, the complaint was quickly forgotten. Groaning, Cú closed his eyes, focused solely on the sensation of being stretched and filled. Like the strum of an instrument. It sent a spark up his spine, nestling into his core where it begged for more. Stronger and stronger came its pleading, until he couldn't help but grunt, his only method to convey that fingers just wouldn't be enough now.

Ah, there it was, but still... slow. Why was Diarmuid so damn slow? He opened his eyes, more impatient than ever, as Diarmuid gradually pushed millimeter by millimeter of his length inside. A growl escaped, and the gentle push turned into a thrust. Better than earlier, but somehow the flicker in Cú's core still wasn't satisfied. More! Too soft! 

Smooth and sleek, Diarmuid's thighs flexed as he pumped in and out, a single drop of sweat curving down his abdomen in a riveting fashion. Even so, despite his obvious athleticism, it just wasn’t hitting the spot. Cú tried to shift his hips in time with the movements, but it was different than what he was used to. They weren't quite in sync, and Diarmuid seemed more interested in thrusting than adding kisses or caresses. 

Another buck of Cú’s hips, this time not inadvertent, and Diarmuid's rhythm stalled. “Could you not do that?”

“Okay.”

“It throws me off.” A little less composed, he resumed his previous pace. 

He threw his head back, mouth open, an enticing sight for sure, but Cú was actually growing bored. Diarmuid topping just didn’t have the same force or intensity as when their positions were reversed. Touch being forbidden didn't help.

Eventually, his disinterest caught on, and Diarmuid began to slump. “This isn’t really working, is it?”

“You gave it your best.”

He sighed. “Want to switch places?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

In an instant, he had the man underneath, pawing at his thighs and sucking on his neck. Burying his cock inside of him, he brought their hips together, forceful enough for them both judging by Diarmuid’s delighted squeak. He was so tight, so warm, and for a moment Cú just enjoyed how perfectly they fit. Lips on his earlobe brought him back to the present, and he rolled his hips, settling into a rhythm. He lifted his head to watch the light dance in Diarmuid's eyes, his head back and mouth open in a moan. Unable to contain himself, he kissed him, tongue pressed to his bottom lip, then inside his mouth, so languid and slow and delicious. Fingers combed through his hair, tugging—not hard, but just enough—and he broke away, now greeted by the mantra of his name: "_Cú, oh Cú!__"_

Every thrust took him closer to the edge, and he apparently wasn't the only one. Diarmuid keened and pushed, urging him deeper in, harder, just a bit more, and then without warning: checkmate. Cú savored the enraptured expression—glazed eyes and lolled tongue—before he finished as well. One last shudder passed through him, and then he collapsed to the side on the too-small bed, Diarmuid already scrambling to get under his arm. Once entwined, both of them lay basking in the post-coital glow.

Diarmuid sighed into his neck. “It was a worthy attempt, I think.”

“Indeed.” He kissed his forehead. “Not your fault you don't usually top.”

“Neither did Artoria, but she always managed just fine,” came the quiet grumble. 

He nodded, then stopped as the words registered. “Wait, what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not, Diarmuid is not cheating on his partner, he just maaaaaaaaaaaaaaybe never mentioned that him and Artoria used to have a couple of *ahem* benefits in their friendship before Cú came along. 
> 
> If anybody has any suggestions for prompts, feel free to share. And as always, thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	10. Anniversary (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid has no idea what to get Cú for their anniversary. Nothing seems like the best option, and he expects the same in return. After all, since when is Cú ever romantic?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurray, I made it to ten drabbles! I start clinics up again tomorrow, so I have no idea when I'll crank out another one. In the meantime, this is some good old-fashioned schmaltz. Hope you enjoy.

Tomorrow was the big day. 

Diarmuid had spent the majority of the past week in brainstorming sessions. Countless sticky notes and crumpled pieces of paper lay scattered over the small table in his quarters, most of them scarcely legible due to the amount of scribbles. 

Pacing around his cramped living area, he wrung his hands. What was he going to do? This was such a momentous occasion. He couldn’t believe it had already been one year. 

Despite his urge to throw himself onto his bed in a dramatic fashion, he managed to stay composed. He just had to calm down. Flying off the handle wouldn’t do him any good.

Even so, he still groaned. “What do I get an apathetic Alter for an anniversary,” he said out loud, just to hear his own self-pity. “He doesn’t like anything!”

Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. Cú liked sex. And he liked fighting. But a romp in the bedroom wasn’t exactly novel; he wanted to do something special. Already he’d considered candlelit dinners, boat rides, hiking, and even more ‘out there’ activities like hang gliding. But the problem was the same every time—those were all things _he’d_ like doing. Not Cú. 

“What do we even do for fun?” 

He slumped in a chair, running a hand through his hair. Most of their dates were planned by him. Often, he’d put in a lot of effort for something unique and creative, only to be met with feigned enthusiasm. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it started to annoy him. What was the point in driving himself crazy if Cú never cared? Like earlier, he got up to pace, muttering under his breath. Maybe he just wouldn’t do anything. Shoot, who was to say Cú would even remember their anniversary?

To hell with it. He clenched his jaw. If nothing ever got results, then nothing it was. 

* * *

He waited a couple of hours the next morning for Cú to show up to wish him a happy anniversary. No suck luck. By mid-morning, he was well and truly aggravated. Stewing in his quarters seemed counterproductive, so he headed off to the training simulator to work off his frustration.

That did the trick. After several hours of mindless killing, he felt too exhausted to care about a disappointing milestone. The last simulation ended, and he did a few quick stretches to work out any kinks in his muscles. 

“There you are.”

He jumped at the voice. Standing at the entrance stood Cú, who seemed almost apprehensive, his posture more tense than usual. 

“Here I am,” he repeated back. He closed the distance between them, greeting Cú with a quick kiss on the lips. “Need something?”

“No—well, I mean, yes.” 

He raised an eyebrow. Cú seemed downright nervous. “Did something happen today?”

The berserker shook his head. “No. I just need you to follow me.”

He obeyed, trotting along behind the man until they arrived at his quarters. As Cú opened the door, he paused.

“Don’t be disappointed. I…” He faltered. “I spent all day trying to get it right, but you make it look easier than it is.”

Somewhat bewildered now, Diarmuid entered the space to figure out what Cú might be referring to. His breath caught in his throat as soon as he did.

A table, complete with tablecloth and candles, sat fully set and ready. At the center, an arrangement of red and yellow roses added a sorely needed splash of color to the green and brown blobs on the plates, which smelled and looked awful quite frankly, but the end result wasn’t what mattered. 

When he tried to speak, Diarmuid found himself legitimately getting choked up. “Is this for…?”

“Happy anniversary.” Cú came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his middle. “I know it isn’t the best, but”—he rested his head on top of Diarmuid’s—”I hope you still like it.”

“Cú, I—” Oh, screw words. He spun around, cupping Cú’s face to kiss him for all he was worth, his sigh inadvertent as he caught the larger man’s bottom lip in his teeth, playfully nibbling, then humming into his mouth with plenty of tongue to spare. When they separated, his heart pounded in his ears. “This is the best present ever.”

The good feeling faded quickly. Like whiplash, all of a sudden he was sheepish; his minor tantrum yesterday seemed ridiculous and immature, and he couldn’t stop the heat creeping into his cheeks, strong enough for him to back away from his confused partner.

“I… didn’t get you anything.”

Cú brightened. “Good.”

“What?” Diarmuid went slack-jawed. “How is that good? You put in all this effort and I did literally nothing!”

“Exactly.” Cú moved closer, taking his hand, his lips grazing the back of it. “You’re all I really want, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	11. Sacrament (Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To say he'd found his own personal Bathsheba was an understatement. For perhaps it was destiny that their paths would cross, or perhaps it was chance, but either way, their union was glorious and terrible, wrong and yet right, for why would a lion lay with a lamb?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Writers who use religious imagery in a sexual context are hacks, it's so overdone.  
Also me, hack writer extraordinaire, putting on my clown nose and floppy shoes: LET'S DO THIS!
> 
> Anyway, get ready for a lot of purple prose. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> EDIT: The fantabulously fantastic Kuma did a [piece](https://ibb.co/Vv6Y11h) based on "The Kiss" by Gustav Klimt for this chapter. Check it out!
> 
> EDIT 2: I changed Master to Dr. Roman because on second thought I don't think Cú would ever be that disrespectful when talking to Master.

Captivating. That was the only word he could think to use the first time he saw Diarmuid in Chaldea. 

Technically, it wasn’t the first time he’d _ever_ seen him. Not even the second. He vaguely remembered his days in America, toiling under the weight of Medb’s aspirations and his own kingship, that there had been a knight, a Celtic warrior like him, beseeching his forgiveness for failure to kill his current Master. He had dismissed the man’s concerns, hadn’t taken heed of him or noticed him in any capacity. 

But he did now. 

It wasn’t on purpose. He’d just been passing through the area when he paused to watch a sparring match. Both participants were clearly skilled, but his interest gravitated toward one more than the other. Toward a figure in green, lithe and agile, whose grace and form took his breath away. So deft and swift were his movements, manipulating two spears with ease, as if he’d been born with one in each hand. How mesmerizing, to watch this thrilling dance, this deadly performance. But it was was only when he smiled, a simple gesture that lit up the amber of his eyes and caused his entire countenance to bloom, that Cú finally understood why Hades had risked everything to have Persephone. 

He used every opportunity after that to get closer. Not too close, of course. There was something so gratifying in his secret obsession. Just moments when he’d stand within arm’s reach, inhaling evergreen and sandalwood and something else he couldn’t quite place, or when he’d bump into him in the hall—an accident he’d claim, that tail was so unwieldy—just to experience the warmth of his skin. Every brush, every whiff, every second fueled him. His encounters grew longer, sometimes even to the point of exchanging a few words, and slowly but surely, he plotted a conquest. 

The celebration had centered around some holiday he didn’t particularly care for, but the alcohol was plentiful and the air buzzed with anticipation and something just a little more sinister. He’d performed his usual part, just standing off to the side and glowering at various passerby, but keeping an eye on Diarmuid the whole time. The man flitted in and out of conversations, a drink always in hand, so effortlessly charming and vivacious. How lovely would it be if those fingers gripped something else, if those locks were matted with sweat and those sparkling eyes held a different kind of shine. He practically salivated at the thought.

As the crowd thinned, he ventured forth from his corner, bolder in his approach. Diarmuid occasionally made eye contact, perhaps just a smidge too long for someone who should have been unaware of his shadow. It didn’t matter, though. The hunt was on, and he always captured his prey. 

Little by little, he grew closer, hovering within earshot, then following behind as Diarmuid departed for the night. He turned corners and slipped down hallways, right on the man’s heels, his own pulse quickening as he rounded one last bend. To his surprise, his quarry stood waiting in the doorway of his quarters. 

“If you wanted to talk to me, you could have just said so.” Diarmuid didn’t appear frightened, more curious really, as Cú closed the gap between them. “You didn’t have to skulk in the corner the whole time.”

“Maybe I prefer it this way.”

Still, he did not shrink, even as Cú lifted his chin, drinking in the wide eyes and errant lock. His scent was so powerful up close. Maddening, honestly. It took all of his willpower not to ravish him right there. 

“Should we go inside?”

It was less a question than a statement, but it snapped Cú back into the present. With his breathing now ragged, he pushed Diarmuid toward the door. There was no resistance, only quiet acceptance. So willing to enter the domain of the beast. 

As he shut out the world behind them, Cú took a moment to admire his prize. Diarmuid fit right in despite the unfamiliar surroundings. Those honey-colored eyes absorbed everything the room had to offer, and finally onto the ultimate contribution itself. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he again said instead of asked, and all caution was thrown to the wind. 

Cú seized him, teeth sinking into supple flesh, tasting body and blood, more flavorful than bread and wine and just as intoxicating. The sharp gasp spurred him on, making quick work of any clothing hindering his greedy hands, unearthing smooth skin, soon to be blemished, soon to be _his. _

He worshipped at the altar between his thighs, giving as much as he could take. Clasping his hands in supplication, he whispered the name—”_Diarmuid_”—as if in prayer, his own exaltation of a worthy sacrifice. His sighs and moans were returned with equal fervor, and the world bled away into a flurry of heat and idolatry.

When their ceremony ended, it took a bit of struggling for his conquest to untangle himself from the suffocating embrace. How beautiful he was, even stained and bruised, the testament to Cú’s zealotry. He started toward the door, but Cú blocked the way, cupping his face, demanding one last indulgence. Tangy, yet sweet, the kiss lingered long after their lips no longer met, like the sting of a pepper. Without a glance behind him, Diarmuid was gone, leaving only a faint fragrance of evergreen and sandalwood and something else he couldn’t quite place. 

He sank to his knees once alone. Awed, humbled, forever transformed by the experience, but completely and utterly determined to have more.

* * *

Not in his wildest dreams did he imagine Diarmuid would reciprocate his sentiments. But then again, he’d never prided himself on his creativity. 

He didn’t even have to go to him. Diarmuid arrived, willingly no less, at his quarters a few days later, still bearing the faint marks of their last session. His face remained impassive as Cú circled him, devising the best method for his veneration. Slowly, he peeled away the layers separating them, exposing graceful legs and a sculpted torso, modeled in the divine image of a higher power to which he bore no allegiance. His lips brushed over the back of one hand, light as a ghost, traveling up the arm, his own tender reverence. 

“Close your eyes,” he said, more calmly than he felt. 

Enthralled, he watched Diarmuid obey, so trusting in the face of such vileness. Not even a flinch as the tips of his claws pricked the flesh of his neck, as he lapped at the sweetness. More succulent than nectar, enough to ignite the fire brewing in his core, spreading to the apex of his desire. It built to an inferno, and he crushed the man beneath him, his passion reflected back at him in the depths of those amber eyes. 

“Will you come back?” he asked when the flames had smoldered into embers. 

“Do you want me to come back?”

As if such a question even needed to exist. “Of course,” he said, then pulled Diarmuid close, burying his nose in those dark locks, breathing in that scent he couldn’t quite place, but which burned more powerful than incense. Fingers ran through his own hair, an unspoken vow, and he smiled at their shared covenant. 

* * *

No warning preceded Dr. Roman’s admonishment, but he would have been lying if he said it came as a surprise. 

“Several of the other Servants have raised concerns over mysterious injuries appearing on Diarmuid outside of battle.” Seated in his makeshift office, he looked Cú squarely in the eye. “Many have pinned _you_ as the source.”

He examined his fingernails. “And if I was?”

“This is not an investigation, Cú. I have eyewitness accounts and solid proof identifying you as the perpetrator. Your behavior is unacceptable, and I’ve brought you here to inform you to cease your abuse at once. If you do not, you will be banned from any missions in the immediate future, and your access to rayshift will be revoked until you’ve undergone sensitivity training.”

He had to bite back a laugh. “I have a question.”

Dr. Roman nodded. 

Leaning forward, he grinned, every tooth on full display. “Have you actually asked Diarmuid how he felt about any of this?”

Surprise flitted across his face. “No, but that’s not—”

“Then we’re done here.” He scooted his chair back, indignation falling on deaf ears. “I think I shall carry on just as I have been.”

As he left, he could only shake his head. How could he exhibit any self-restraint when presented with paradise? For a man who’d had ambrosia, who'd tasted such immaculate flavor, could never go back.

* * *

Diarmuid was already waiting for him when he arrived back at his quarters. In an instant, he leaped off the bed, rushing straight into Cú’s open arms. 

“I heard you were getting reprimanded.”

“As if that would ever stop me.”

Tilting Diarmuid’s chin upward, he declared his devotion in the only way he knew how. With their lips united, their bodies soon followed, and before long the air grew heavy with the fragrance of their personal sacrament. 

“What a mess I’ve made,” Diarmuid sighed as they lay curled together, ever the martyr, still so self-flagellating even when decorated with scratches and bites. “I’ve gotten you into a fair bit of trouble, haven’t I?”

“I got myself into trouble. I was the one who pursued you.”

“But I was the one who teased you.”

Cú cocked his head as those amber eyes glittered, suddenly devilish, that radiant smile no longer pure. 

“I lured you to me.”

There was no response he could give to this. All he could do was chuckle, confused but content, breathing in the scent he couldn’t quite place but adored nonetheless, the atmosphere saturated with the wonderfully ambiguous quandary of who truly caught who. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Already got the next one planned (hint: it's pure fluff). Thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	12. Bubble Bath (Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do two ancient Celtic servants do when they break into their Master's quarters? Take a bubble bath in her Jacuzzi, of course!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does Ritsuka have a big hot tub in her quarters? I don't know, if you were the last savior of humanity, the least Chaldea could do was give you one or two nice amenities. Give the girl a break. She deserves it. 
> 
> Also this was directly inspired by that one John Mulaney quote, "This is the height of luxury!" Truer words have never been spoken.
> 
> Enjoy! (Also check out viceturtle's cool drawing for this chapter [here](https://ibb.co/kDzH7bC).)

Satisfied with the temperature, Diarmuid turned the knob until the water slowed to a stop. A moment later, he was scouring through the nearby cabinets, tossing out towels and washcloths and loofahs before emerging with his prize. 

He actually had to suppress a giggle as he poured the substance into the center of the tub. Never in a million years did he imagine he’d be doing something this out of line. 

“Can I come in yet?”

Tilting his head in the direction of Cú’s voice, he called out, “Almost. I’ll retrieve you in two seconds.” He swished a hand through the water. The reaction had already started; it wouldn’t be too much longer. 

An impatient Cú greeted him when he stepped back into the main living area of Master’s quarters. Standing on the tips of his toes, he whispered in the larger man’s ear, “Close your eyes.”

Cú did so, surprisingly, and it took a bit of fumbling for Diarmuid to guide him into the bathroom without knocking over too many odds and ends. He made a mental note to pick up once they were done. 

“All right.” He arranged Cú in front of the small set of steps. “Open your eyes. Ta-da!”

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t sheer incredulity. Eyebrows raised, Cú gestured at the tub in disbelief.

“You broke into Master’s quarters in the middle of the night just so we could take a bubble bath?”

It sounded utterly ridiculous when he said it like that. Diarmuid had to resist a glare. 

“I wanted to be adventurous.” He strode around the large basin. “And look at the size of this thing! Where else would we ever find something big enough to accomodate both of us?”

“I suppose.” Cú peered into the foamy water, a wry smile forming on his face. “I’m somewhat amused that your first act of rebellion is for something so mundane.”

Diarmuid laughed. “You jest, but I was actually very conflicted when we made these plans.”

“Things get easier once you lose your conscience.”

He snorted, unbuckling the straps around his thighs. “You’re a bad influence.”

“Tch, how dare you,” Cú said jokingly, half of his outfit dematerialized and the other half on the floor. He tested the water with one finger. “You of all people should know I would lay down my life for our Master.”

“Apologies. I forgot how much you valued it.”

Diarmuid had to bite back another laugh at Cú’s expression of amused offense. Now fully undressed, he hurried toward the nearby shower stall, out of reach of the clawed grasp.

“What a cruel observation. I truly have corrupted you.” Cú shot him a questioning look when he opened the shower door. “What are you doing?”

“Master said she often rinses off before a bath so she doesn’t contaminate the clean water. I thought that sounded like a good idea.”

“Do I need to do that?”

Diarmuid surveyed the stall. The space already inspired claustrophobia in him. But for Cú? “I honestly don’t think you’ll fit. Just get in and I’ll join you shortly.”

By the time he emerged, he found the floor covered in water. Cú had submerged most of his body—his eyes closed, head leaned back, and tail propped over the edge—and the area around the tub sparkled in the wake of the overflow. 

“You do realize we have to clean all this up?”

“You worry too much.” Cú finally opened his eyes. “Just get in already.”

Not a bad suggestion. Diarmuid settled on the opposite end, sighing at the water’s warmth and the soft texture of the foam and just how soothing everything felt. Most of his life, he’d only bathed in streams and ponds, a hurried exercise as he and Gráinne rushed off to their next location to escape the Fianna. Even just a moment to breathe had been a luxury, but an actual hot tub? Truly the height of decadence. 

His reverie ended as Cú cleared his throat. “Are you reenacting that one video Merlin is so fond of? The '_two bros chilling five feet apart_?’”

“We are not five feet apart.” He waded through the sea of bubbles toward Cú, who deposited him on his lap facing him. “Better?”

“Yes, even though you look like you have a rare skin condition.”

Diarmuid furrowed his brow. “What?”

“The bubbles.” Cú pointed at his arms. “They’re sticking to you.”

An idea popped into his head and he grinned. “I’m not the only one.” He scooped up a handful of sudsy water and spread it all over Cú’s chin and around his mouth, even accentuating with bubble sideburns. “I’ve always wondered how you’d look with a beard.” 

“The verdict?”

He stifled a chuckle. “Bad.”

“Perhaps it will qualify me for the Santa servant position.” Cú wiped the stuff off and applied it to Diarmuid’s ears. “There, now you have earrings too. How’s it feel?”

“Like my ears are wet.” He shook his head, then leaned forward, about to wrap his arms around Cú’s neck. He stopped at the sight of several buttons on the tub’s edge. “Hey, what’s this?” With Cú now watching, he pressed the one closest to him.

Both of them nearly jumped as several jets activated. At their shared look of disbelief, Diarmuid couldn’t help but crack up. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Let’s try this one.” Cú pressed the button next to the first and a faint hissing sound began. Within a minute, the water churned violently, as if boiling, and they again shared a look. 

“The modern world is so mysterious.” Diarmuid relaxed against the broad chest in front of him. “But I have to admit it’s nice.”

Unfortunately, he didn’t get to relax too long. Wandering hands found their way to his more sensitive areas, and he squirmed as Cú peppered kisses down his neck. 

“We can’t do that here.”

Cú paused to taste his mouth. “You said you wanted to be adventurous.”

“Not _that_ adventurous! We can’t desecrate our Master’s bathing area.” He yelped as Cú pulled him closer, resuming his journey down his neck. “Please, I’m serious, you have to stop!”

His request was heeded, albeit grudgingly. Cú sat back with a huff, propping one arm on the edge of the tub. “Now what?”

“Close your eyes,” Diarmuid instructed, just like earlier, as he grabbed a bottle of shampoo on a shelf set against the wall. With a dime-sized portion in his palm, he spread it into Cú’s hair, lathering the blue strands until they were sufficiently fluffy. His efforts were rewarded with what sounded like a purr, and he gave Cú a quick peck. “Okay, I need you to slide down to rinse.” 

Once completed, he admired his handiwork. “You smell like flowers,” he teased. 

“”Well, you’re going to get”—Cú paused, examining another bottle—”Waterfall Mist?” He took a whiff, then wrinkled his nose. “That does not smell like a waterfall.”

“As long as it smells nice, I don’t care.”

In response, Cú shrugged and imitated the same process from before. Diarmuid closed his eyes, enjoying the thorough—although somewhat rough—massage of his scalp. When finished, they continued perusing the rest of the shelf, picking out soaps and oils and scrubs and whatever sounded interesting. Master had quite an extensive collection for both hair and skin, and by the end of their enthusiastic endeavors, they smelled more like the interior of a salon than proud warriors. 

Wrapped up in Cú’s arms, Diarmuid sighed, lazily tracing a finger from the edge of the berserker's shoulder down to the muscular chest. “You feel so soft.”

“Same to you. But unfortunately,” Cú said as he frowned, fumbling with the buttons until the jets and bubbles had stopped, “we should probably leave. Who knows how long we’ve been here. We don’t want anyone catching us.”

Diarmuid groaned. “Fine, I guess. The water is getting cold.”

Drying off quickly turned into a fun game of keeping Cú's lecherous hands off of him. Diarmuid found himself getting chased around the bathroom more than once, the punishment for getting caught another round of heated kisses, which also sidetracked them during their tidying up efforts. Eventually, however, the place was spotless, and all traces of their activities had been erased. 

Diarmuid quietly shut the door behind them as they exited Master’s quarters. From what he could tell, it was still night and they wouldn’t run into anyone as they stole their way down the hallway. 

Cú stopped him outside of his own quarters, grinning wolfishly. “You’re welcome to come inside.”

“But we just got clean,” Diarmuid protested.

“Oh no. I was unaware you could only bathe once in your life.”

He rolled his eyes, secretly smiling on the inside. “All right, you win. Lead the way.”

* * *

A couple days later, Master returned from her mission. For a short while, it seemed his and Cú’s shenanigans had gone unnoticed, but that turned out not to be the case the following day.

“Okay, chucklefucks!” Master shouted, storming into the main Chaldea lounge while holding a clump of long, blue hair. “Which Cú clogged the fucking drain in my tub?”

Diarmuid and Cú exchanged an uneasy look. Seems their clean-up hadn’t been as thorough as they’d thought.

Whoops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what the next drabble is going to be. Any suggestions are welcome. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	13. Love Language (Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seminars were meant to teach, to enlighten. What happens when it enlightens you in the wrong way?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to exploring some of Cú's issues. Weirdly enough, I have seen some fics (usually smut) take this interpretation of him, but I thought I'd go in a different direction. I still feel like the ending is a little rushed and Cú is a little too vulnerable, but oh well. That tends to happen with a short drabble versus a long, drawn-out character study. Like I said in chapter one, Cú's edges are a bit softer since he's been dating Diarmuid.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Generally, Cú never paid attention during any of the Chaldea seminars. Most were optional, but sometimes he’d get dragged along by Diarmuid to topics such as “_Current Global Crises_” or “_The Evolution of the Potato in Popular Cuisine_” under the explanation that they “needed to broaden their horizons and sharpen their minds.” Not much good that did, because usually he’d catch a few words here and there and then nod off. 

This one, however, Diarmuid seemed particularly excited for, so he grudgingly made a personal promise to do his best to stay alert. The title was “_Learning Your Partner’s Love Language,_” and to his chagrin, Servants—paired and single alike—packed the converted lounge to the brim. 

“Remember,” the speaker said, some random Chaldea staff member he didn’t know, “the way your partner shows affection is often the way they like to receive it!”

Made sense. Diarmuid easily fell under the categories of “_Quality Time_” and “_Acts of Service_,” but as Cú perused the rest of the options, nothing really stuck out for him.

He asked Diarmuid about it after the seminar.

“Oh, that’s obvious,” he said, taking Cú’s hand with a smile. “You’re Touch. Half the time I can’t keep you off me.”

His eyes followed their interlocked fingers, and he forced his own smile. “Sure. Of course.”

But was he? Was he really?

Yes, whether alone or—to Diarmuid’s embarrassment—in public, Cú often pulled the smaller man close to kiss and hold and, most scandalously, grope. There was a certain power in it, to _want_ to touch someone. But his reaction to being touched varied. In the heat of the moment, sure, but those lighter touches, the casual affection, he occasionally tolerated more than loved. As pleasant as it was to know the actions resulted from Diarmuid’s fondness for him, he still couldn’t shake those phantom hands, the ones that now only existed in his nightmares. The ones that had shaped him into the anomaly he was now. 

And anomaly he was. His Lancer counterpart even agreed. He shouldn’t have been a person—as loosely as he qualified—but he was. A warped and misaligned person, better suited for Medb’s fantasy than reality, his entire being designed for her “ideal.” As obvious as most of his less savory characteristics were, he didn’t tell Diarmuid about all of them. He didn’t go into detail about _why_ he fit Touch.

It must have been part of her wish on the Grail. Somehow Medb had changed his settings, flipped his switch to always be “ON” regardless of scenario. No regular person, he reasoned, must feel this way. Only by sheer willpower did he keep it in check, but it continuously simmered beneath his skin, a perpetual hunger he could never extinguish. The purpose was obvious—he’d be ready whenever she wanted. It didn’t matter if the urges built until he was manic, if his only outlet was destruction, channeled into battle and bloodlust, into anything that could serve as a cheap substitute for his carnal needs. Then for a couple of hours he’d be sated, though only somewhat, before it again flickered and burned into an inferno. 

It wasn’t pleasant. Better than it had been, for sure, since it wasn’t until Diarmuid that he’d even learned sex could be fulfilling. But it still wasn’t great. He couldn’t count how many times he’d been denied—”_just not in the mood tonight, sorry_”—only to go back to his quarters to release his pent-up frustration. How awful it felt, when he came down from the high, to see he’d broken his bed yet again. To realize he’d have to shamefully ask Master or Dr. Roman, who never said a word about his behavior, to replace it. To know that it probably wouldn’t be the last time it happened. 

What qualified his affliction as an expression of “love?” The question haunted him. He became withdrawn from everyone, from Diarmuid even, who noticed immediately. 

“Is everything okay?” he’d ask everyday, so stupidly caring and wonderful. 

“Fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.” Diarmuid would scoot closer to him on the bed despite his flinch. ”You can tell me about any grievances you have. I want to hear what’s bothering you.”

“I’m fine,” he’d repeat, again and again, the lie killing him. But how could he explain?

He distanced himself further. Physical interaction grew less and less frequent. No more touching, no more caressing or kissing or even hand-holding; nothing to stoke the fire. His avoidance kept mounting until intimacy had practically become a distant memory. This led to far more broken beds, night after night, his repression ruining even other items of furniture, until finally Master snapped.

“Dude, seriously,” she said, rubbing her eyebrows in exasperation, “we’ve got to make this stop.”

“I will do my best.”

“No, I don’t want to hear that.” She sighed. “I worry about you. Like… I noticed Diarmuid is looking glum all the time, and like, if you guys are fighting or something—”

“We aren’t.”

She threw her hands up. “Then why is this happening?”

He didn’t say anything, and she sighed again.

“Look, just talk to him, okay? I promise you it won’t be as bad as you think.” She suddenly laughed. “For your bed’s sake, at the very least. I bet it’s tired of getting fucked to smithereens.”

* * *

For his bed and relationship’s sake, he went to Diarmuid with his proverbial tail between his legs. (His real one was held aloft as usual.)

“I need to talk to you,” he said, pulling Diarmuid along.

“Are you angry with me?”

The tremor in the man’s voice made him stop momentarily. “No,” he whispered. “I’m not. But I do need to tell you something.”

Once in his quarters, he seated Diarmuid on his newly replaced bed. Glancing around the room, he tried to look at anything but the worried eyes and sad frown. He exhaled slowly, then poured forth his secret. 

Exhaustion gripped him as he finished. Steeling himself, he finally raised his head toward Diarmuid’s unreadable expression.

“That was quite a lot.”

“I know,” he said, suddenly regretful. He should have kept it in—

“Thank you for telling me.” Diarmuid stood up, moving closer. “I’m very proud of you, okay?”

He jerked away, hating himself as he caught sight of the wounded flash in the other man’s eyes. “That’s not all. I…” He trailed off, unsure of what to say or how to say it. The true reason for his absent affection.

“You what?” came the soft voice.

Again, he couldn’t bring himself to meet Diarmuid’s gaze. “Do you remember the talk on love language?” 

“Yes, I do."

“You said I was Touch. And I don’t know if that’s true—”

“I was unaware of all of this, Cú, I’m sorry—”

“—because nothing makes sense to me.” He swallowed, bowing his head. “How can I express love to you, when I am just a creation of someone who never knew it?”

Silence. An eternity stretching on and on. Only broken by the quiet, “You’re doing it right now.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I know you hate moments like this.” Diarmuid wiped his eyes. “But you’re suffering through it anyway because you value me that much. And if that’s not a legitimate expression”—he gently took Cú’s hand—”then I don’t know what is.”

Dumbstruck. That was the only way to describe his current state. All this time he’d spent dwelling on faults when he’d never considered his capacity for growth. In shock, he stared at the hopeful smile, the beautiful warmth held just for him. It overwhelmed him, and he swept Diarmuid into his arms, kissing him as passionately as he could to make up for so much time wasted. His zeal was returned just as earnestly, and as they separated, he vowed to never let go again.

Perhaps he would always struggle. But he was learning. And in that moment, amidst their lips brushing, he whispered every endearing phrase he could think of, all too aware that his vocabulary was far too limited to truly convey the words “_I love you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one will probs just be fluff, then might do another smut prompt. We shall see. As always, thanks to everyone who's reading, especially to everyone who comments. You guys make my life. 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	14. Toy Troubles (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid has to prove Mini Cú can actually move, much to Cú's skepticism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's like Child's Play, but cuter. Enjoy!

Where had it come from?

Nobody knew. Not Cú, not Master, not _anyone_. It had just appeared one day, sitting on a pillow, a perpetual scowl glued on to its surprisingly adorable face. The grumpy cuteness was simply irresistible. Well, at least, to Diarmuid.

He’d chuckled and bent down, about to pick it up when it snapped at his hands. Jerking back, he stared in shock as it bared its tiny teeth before toddling away, leaving him dumbfounded. 

A second later, he raced through the Chaldea hallways, weaving in and out of Servants until he finally found Cú. “You have to see this!” he yelled, practically pouncing on the man. “The doll is alive!”

“Calm down.” Cú grabbed his shoulders. “What doll?”

“The little one that resembles you. It can move around!”

Cú snorted. “I see.” He patted Diarmuid’s head in a condescending manner, cooing, “Have you been eating Merlin’s brownies again?”

“That was one time,” Diarmuid muttered, shoving the hand away. “And the… ingredient he puts in doesn’t make you hallucinate.” At Cú’s continued smirk, he sighed. “Will you please follow me? I’ll prove it to you.”

Even though the smirk never left his face, Cú did relent. He kept close to Diarmuid as they searched high and low for the elusive toy. 

“It’s only a dozen centimeters tall, where could it have gone?” Diarmuid peeked behind yet another piece of furniture, then straightened, resisting the urge to start pacing.

“I found it.”

Instantly, he perked up. In just a few short strides, he crossed the room to stand by Cú, who held the malevolent plush doll in his hands. 

“Seems pretty motionless to me.”

Diarmuid shook his head. “It moves. Look!” He grabbed the doll, which—infuriatingly enough—still remained still. “I don’t… here.” He stuck his hand in front of its face. 

Nothing.

“I don’t understand.” The doll drooped as his grip slackened, and Cú shot him another bemused smile. 

“Maybe you were struck on the head on the last mission.”

He glared. Not really in the mood to hear any more jokes about his mental state, he shoved the doll into Cú’s hand and marched off.

“I wasn’t being serious!”

He didn’t say anything back. Instead, he walked all the way to his quarters to stew in silence. For several minutes, he sat on his bed, his head resting in his hands. His irritation dwindled, but a tiny worry still nibbled at the back of his mind. What if Cú was right? What if he was just seeing things?

The creak of the door caught his attention. He looked up to see Cú approaching, and his earlier annoyance began to resurge. Scowling, he shifted directions to face the wall instead.

“Oh, stop being so touchy.”

“You literally called me crazy.”

“I was just teasing.” 

He bit back a bitter laugh as Cú’s hand rested on his shoulder. When the berserker tried to pull him close, he jerked away.“That’s what Fionn always says, too.” 

“Okay.” Cú knelt in front of him. “I was insensitive. I’m”—he stalled for a second, Diarmuid watching him expectantly—“sorry.” He sat next to him on the bed and pointed over at the nearby table. “Look, I brought the doll. Maybe it will decide to move while it’s here.” 

“Maybe.” 

This time, Diarmuid didn’t resist as Cú pulled him onto his lap. Bringing their foreheads together, the berserker prodded his nose, and he couldn’t help but blush. Before long, their lips met and all earlier tension dissolved. Diarmuid’s limbs loosened as he sank into the sensation, warm and pliable to each caress. 

As Cú moved onto his neck, he sighed, tangling his fingers in the ocean blue hair. Lazily, he leaned back to allow the man better access, and his eyes accidentally fell on the doll.

The doll who had stuck its tongue out in disgust.

“It moved!” Without any sort of grace, he launched himself off Cú and tumbled onto the floor, already scrambling to his feet as soon as they made contact. “It’s making faces. Look!”

Annoyingly, the doll’s expression had gone back to its usual scowl in the time it took Cú to notice. The man in question—who also looked annoyed at the interruption—got up to stand by Diarmuid’s side. 

“Look, I don’t think you’re—”

“Don’t say it,” Diarmuid snapped. 

“...unwell, but maybe you’re just… stressed.” Cú laid the doll face-down. “Why don’t we go to the training simulator and help you unwind?”

Diarmuid sighed. “Maybe that would be good.”

* * *

The exercise actually did distract Diarmuid from the doll predicament. After a few rounds, he was back to his usual good mood, and a shared shower with Cú only brightened his spirits. 

Back in the berserker’s quarters, they lay curled together. Snuggling into Cú’s chest, Diarmuid smiled as a kiss was placed on his forehead. 

“Am I forgiven for everything today?”

“Yes.” Diarmuid closed his eyes. “All is forgiven.”

With the arms holding him close and the gentle rise and fall of his lover’s chest, Diarmuid soon fell asleep. His dreams unfolded like a broken flower. Somehow he was a father again, and his child was running ahead of him. Desperately, he raced to catch up, but an odd pressure on his chest prevented him going full speed. The child moved farther and farther away, and before long, he couldn’t even see his little one anymore. A soundless cry escaped his lips, and he woke with a start. 

The doll stood on his chest. Glaring.

“I want to cuddle with daddy,” it hissed. “Not you.” 

He couldn’t breathe. His eyes widened as the little toy crawled toward Cú. 

“Cú,” he whispered, still in disbelief. As the doll settled near the man’s head, he sat up straight. “Cú!”

“What is it—” Cú stared at the miniature version of him on the pillow, which happily cooed and snuggled closer. "Yeah, this isn’t happening.” Without batting an eye, he chucked the little doll into the wall. It landed in a heap on the floor, only to look up with the most wounded expression Diarmuid had ever seen.

“You hurt him.” He rushed over to the small figure as it sniffled, tears pooling in its eyes. “He just wanted affection from you.”

“I am not interested in letting that thing sleep in the bed.”

Diarmuid didn’t pay attention to the comment. Now that he’d proved his point on the doll’s movement, all he could focus on was how despondent it looked. It sniffled again, raising its pudgy arms toward him, and he gathered it close to him, stroking the small back. 

“Are you actually going to cuddle with it?”

“He called you daddy.” He kissed the little cheek, eliciting another happy coo. “I think he just wants someone to take care of him.” 

“Find someone else then.”

Again, Diarmuid didn’t listen as he made his way back. With Cú watching, he settled on the bed, the doll still clutched against his chest.

Cú frowned and reached toward it. “Don’t—” He jerked back as the doll hissed at him, one tiny hand batting at the much larger clawed one. “Sheesh, it’s like a little gremlin.”

“No.” Diarmuid hugged the doll just a bit tighter as it closed its eyes. “He’s like a Mini Cú.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering Cú's track record with his own children, I'd say it's better that Mini Cú steers clear. Diarmuid, on the other hand, had five children when he was alive, and I bet he was a pretty good dad.
> 
> Thank to everybody who's stuck with me. You guys are amazing. 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	15. Trick or Treat (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Halloween night, Diarmuid does a trick and Cú wants a treat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so tonally inconsistent. Please forgive me for this being all over the place. Honestly, I just wanted to do a drabble based on the best holiday, and I finally got sick of working on it. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Warning: really rough sex ahead (still consensual). You have been warned.

Diarmuid and the rest of the lancers hugged the wall as a few child servants rushed through. Dressed as fairies and witches and other more obscure figures, the little tykes chirped “_t__hanks! _” before turning a corner and disappearing from sight.

“We should probably follow them,” Cú Lancer said. Clad in something other than his usual blue outfit, he hefted a spear. “The kids always know where to get the best stuff.”

No disagreements there. Although he didn’t understand all aspects of the holiday, Diarmuid had to admit Master’s idea of a Chaldea-wide trick or treat event was proving to be a success. Most servants just left candy outside their own quarters to join in on the fun, but a few actually stood by their doors to personally disperse the confections. Their group—consisting of himself, Cú Lancer, Cú Proto, Fionn, Karna, and Enkidu—passed by several, occasionally taking what seemed interesting, before they caught up with the gaggle of children.

“Jackpot! Iskandar’s place!” Cú Lancer pumped his fist in the air, then nudged Proto teasingly. “Why don’t you join all the other kids over there?”

Somehow he dodged the spear. The rest of them waited as Iskandar, made up to look like a video game character Zhuge Liang/Waver called ‘_Ganandorf_,’ showered praise over the child servants in front of him. Next to him, the aforementioned caster—clad in a green tunic and hat—attempted to look bored, but even he couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“I would have expected you to be out gathering candy for yourself,” Karna remarked to the rider as each of the lancers took various forms of chocolate and nougat. 

“The night is young.” Iskandar's eyes sparkled. “I shall wait until everyone has collected their bounty… then I will take what I see fit!”

“You can’t just steal other people’s candy, you big idiot.”

Iskandar laughed heartily at Zhuge Liang/Waver’s comment. “Boy, haven’t you learned? It’s a conquest! Not thievery.”

“Cool, cool,” Cú Proto said absentmindedly, sorting through his own bounty. “Just don’t take our stuff and there won’t be any problems.”

“Then I suggest you protect it well!”

Armed with the advice and several full-size candy bars, the group thanked Iskandar and departed. They had only been walking a couple minutes, however, before a golden figure accosted them.

“Hmm, what’s this? Mongrels, thinking they can just walk through my hallways, with my candy?”

As everyone else readied their weapons, Enkidu snorted. “I’ll share with you. Just leave the others be.”

Gilgamesh’s cheeks reddened, his pompous air cracking. “You… all treasures of this world belong to me!”

“You don’t even like candy.”

“That’s not important,” he said under his breath.

Enkidu took his arm, smiling, and miraculously, the archer allowed the green-haired figure to guide him away from the group.

“Well, that was weird.” Cú Lancer shook his head. “Anybody got any ideas where to go next?”

“Ohoho, we should find Mash. Have you seen her costume this year? It’s simply delectable.”

The rest of them made a face at Fionn, and Karna even muttered, “You don’t need to ogle her any chance you get.”

“I’m going to depart. I promised Cú,” Diarmuid paused, suddenly sheepish, “err… the _ other _Cú I’d meet up with him once I was done.” 

“Yeah, I’ll definitely leave you alone for that.”

Diarmuid frowned, not at Cú Proto’s words, but rather at the tone. “Do you take issue with this?”

“No, that’s not, I—” Proto scowled. “There’s nothing wrong with you guys, it’s just weird watching you suck face with… my face.”

That was fair. Diarmuid remembered how awkward it had been when he’d accidentally walked in on his saber counterpart getting… intimate with Lancer Artoria Alter. Cú Lancer had laughed about it for a month, constantly hooting, “_Looks like all versions of Diarmuid like alters with enormous chests! _” Hard to live a line like that down.

Unsure of how to respond, he just shrugged and continued on his way. The hallways gradually shifted to the SR quarters, then eventually to SSR. Before long, he found himself knocking on a familiar door. He adjusted his outfit, anticipation building, only sheer willpower keeping his face from splitting into a grin. 

When the door swung open, he stuck his hands on his hips. Inside, Cú Alter held a bag containing what appeared to be some sort of candy, and he said in a bored tone, “Pick a piece, then get—”

He stopped. This time, his eyes raked over Diarmuid, from the top of his head down to his feet, and his mouth opened wide in disbelief. “Are you… what?”

“Do I not look attractive in blue?” Diarmuid teased.

“That has nothing to do with it. That’s… why?”

He shrugged, smoothing down the skin-tight bodysuit. “Your lancer counterpart procrastinated on his costume, and when he came to me panicking, I suggested we switch outfits.”

“It’s messing with my head. It just looks… _ wrong _.”

Sidling up to Cú, he whispered into his ear, “Then why don’t you get me out of it, hmm?”

In an instant, both of their bags of candy had been spilled all over the floor, and Diarmuid was pinned flat against the wall inside. He widened his stance to stay on his feet, pulling the hood down as those sharp teeth made contact with his neck.

He groaned. “Careful… _ ahh _… not yet.”

“Not yet what?” Cú sucked on his Adam’s apple. “Now seems like a perfect time.”

“Well… I already told you. We’re both clothed, and I’d rather not ruin someone else’s armor.”

Cú chuckled, drawing back with a devious gleam. “If you insist.”

Off came the silver pauldrons first. Diarmuid rolled his shoulders, relieved to be free of the weight. Next, Cú peeled the fitted top off, lifting the hem up and over Diarmuid’s arms, then pulling it over his head. Not even a glance as it fell on the floor. Instead, clawed fingers traced lines from Diarmuid's abdomen down to the start of his hips, where they slipped underneath the blue material.

Diarmuid rested his own hands on top of the much larger ones cradling him. “Need any help?”

“No.” A sharp finger lazily drifted toward midline, down to the now-visible bulge. “But it certainly is tight.”

His breathing quickened at the touch. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes, savoring the feel of Cú cupping and fondling him through the fabric. He moved his hands to press against the chiseled abdomen in front of him. 

“I forgot to ask you,” Diarmuid panted, leaning forward to capture Cú’s mouth in a kiss, “when I first came in.”

“Hmm?”

“Trick or treat.”

He had to bite back a laugh at the amusement dancing in those red eyes. Cú ran a tongue along his bottom lip, as if considering.

“What if I say trick?”

“Then stand back.” Diarmuid pushed the other man away from him, readjusting the bottom half of his outfit. With just a flick of his wrist, he manifested his long red spear in his hand, then strode to the center of the room, fully aware of Cú’s lingering gaze. Planting the tip of the object in the ground, he wrapped one leg around the shaft and hoisted himself up. 

“Ready?”

Cú sat on the bed, the amusement in his eyes now closer to hunger. “Please.”

“Here goes nothing.” Hooking the shaft under the crook of his knee, Diarmuid pivoted until he hung upside down. For a moment he grew dizzy, but he slid down until his hands met the floor and he could correct his position. Now seated, he straddled the spear in front of him, grinding against it. The chill of the object raised goosebumps on his arms, and he closed his eyes, imagining the shaft was something _else. _As his own body heat warmed the metal, he opened his eyes to meet Cú's rapt expression. Slowly, he licked a line up the shaft, one hand gripping the spear while the other pushed his hair back. Cú leaned forward, legs spread, and the obvious arousal piqued Diarmuid's own. A shiver went down his spine, and a sudden urge to move overcame him.

Once again on his feet, he did another twirl, doing his best to arch his back. A bead of sweat rolled down his spine. Somehow everything felt far too warm under the scrutiny of the piercing gaze, and he flashed a quick wink, desperate for the chill of the spear on his flushed skin. Again, he climbed up on the shaft and hung upside down. Even though he was dizzy, he still spun, supporting himself with just the strength of his thighs. While the slight strain wasn't enough to affect his breathing, the desire in Cú's eyes was. After he motioned for him to move closer, he righted himself, wrapping his legs around the berserker’s waist and his arms around the neck. 

“I don’t know how to do much else, I’m afraid.”

“That’s okay.” Cú carried him over to the bed. Kissing him hungrily, he made quick work of the bottom half of his lancer outfit. “It was still fun to watch.”

Before Cú could get too frisky, Diarmuid sat up. “What about your clothes?” 

“I was going to get rid of them.”

“Let me do it.”

Cú blinked, then reversed their positions, him now on bottom. “Get to it then.”

Lifting Cú’s hair, Diarmuid pulled the displaced hood and cloak off, then tossed it into an unceremonious heap on the floor. His focus shifted to the elaborate black suit, where a naughty idea struck him. He lowered his head, using his teeth to tug at the material. With enough determination, he freed Cú’s waist, admiring the contour of his hips, the ley lines pointing directly to the prominent bulge. Another tug, and more smooth skin for his eyes to feast on, muscular and hot to the touch. Just a light caress of his tongue made Cú moan, bringing a smile to Diarmuid's lips. Music to his ears. 

His journey stalled when he tried to unearth the rest of the thighs and the outfit snagged. He had a brief struggle, then admitted defeat. Before he could use his hands, however, he found himself face to face with nothing but bare flesh. Cú had dematerialized the rest. 

He made a face. “Cheater.”

“You were taking too long.” Cú pulled him down for a kiss. “You know I don’t like waiting.” 

As if to prove a point, the tail snaked around Diarmuid’s middle, holding him in place. When it also curled around part of his thigh, Diarmuid tried to shift, but he couldn’t get it to budge. Only his arms were free, allowing Cú to shamelessly explore the rest of him. 

“Double cheater.”

“No.” Cú traced from his biceps to his chest, then down to this thighs, gripping them roughly. He arranged Diarmuid on his lap, grinding against his entrance. “Just ready for my treat.”

Panic rose. “Cú, what about—”

There was no warning. He screamed as Cú bucked, shoving his cock in with one thrust. It was difficult to determine where pain ended and pleasure began, and the only thing he could hiss through clenched teeth was, “Why didn’t you let me prepare?”

“Fits the holiday, doesn’t it?” Cú grunted, rocking their hips together. “More frightening if it hurts a little.”

What a bastard. For payback, Diarmuid bit down, hard, on Cú’s nipple. The yelp gave him some satisfaction. If he was going to be in pain, at least he wouldn’t be the only one. This didn’t last, however, as the spikes on Cú’s tail dug into his side. He flinched, matching the pace of the thrusts as he made eye contact. A harsh kiss, both of them unwilling to be gentle for the other, only prolonged the competition.

Harder and harder. Diarmuid rode the high, latching himself onto Cú and refusing to let go. Every breath hurt, but the sheer sadism only heightened his arousal. With one hand tangled in blue hair and the other on his cock, he synchronized his strokes with Cú’s. Mounting, burning, a paradox both disciplined and illicit, pushing him to the edge and beyond. His eyes never left the red ones in front of him, and he drowned in the dilated pupils and _need _within their depths. His cock ached, almost worse than the rest of his body, but he held on, panting, the sensation both tortuous and wonderful. Biting his lip, he yanked on Cú's hair, pulling the head back far enough so he could lick and suck his neck. 

When Cú snarled, driving into him one last time, he reached his limit. His hips bucked as he came. He cried out, only to turn that into a scream as Cú sank his teeth into his shoulder. Eyes watering, he drew his own share of blood as he gouged lines into the broad back he was clutching, desperate to inflict a similar sensation.

They both panted. As the erotic energy dissipated, all they could do was take stock of the damage. 

Diarmuid winced as he did a once-over. “Ow,” he finally said. 

“But did you like it?”

Reluctantly, he admitted he did. 

“Then that’s what matters.” Cú leaned back, regarding him with half-lidded eyes. “Would you like me to kiss it all better?”

Diarmuid nodded before nipping Cú’s lower lip. “Yes, but first"—he clambered off the bed and picked up his spilled bag of candy—“I’d like my own treat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to do fluff next. Suggestions are welcome. Even if I don't use it, it often gets my brain jogging. As always, thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	16. Alphabet Kisses (Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One kiss, two kiss, red kiss, blue kiss...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Wow, what if I took an adjective from every letter of the alphabet and used it to describe a kiss scenario?  
X: *laughs at me from the shadows*
> 
> (Yeah, I was a little liberal in the definition of xeric, but what else was I going to use? Xenophobic?)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy and this doesn't get too repetitive. Plus, check out this [drawing](https://celtic-pyro.tumblr.com/post/188546236994/diarmuid-being-a-diarmood) for N (the pic came first, I actually wrote the scenario around it). The wonderful viceturtle also provided these drawings: [one](https://ibb.co/17hk0YD), [two](https://ibb.co/vXnv2hH), [three](https://ibb.co/y04WRQG), and [four](https://ibb.co/swY9wc1).

**Awkward**

Their first kiss hadn’t gone perfectly. Cú had bent down too fast, right as Diarmuid lifted his chin, and their foreheads collided. After a colorful string of curses from him and a mumbled apology from Diarmuid, they tried again with similar results. Finally, he got fed up, grabbed Diarmuid’s shoulders, and planted a quick yet forceful kiss on his lips. Only at the wounded expression did he sigh, then go a bit slower. _ Very _slow. 

**Blushing**

To Diarmuid, one of the cutest things was the light color that bloomed across Cú’s cheeks whenever he cupped his face. He’d always deny it, of course, claiming the room was just a little too hot, but Diarmuid knew better. The red intensifying whenever their lips met gave it away.

**Casual**

In the morning or after a mission, their interactions were usually brief. Just a greeting, a hug, and a quick peck on the lips. But no matter how hurried, it never failed to bring a smile to Cú’s face in anticipation of the more drawn-out version. 

**Disheveled **

Sloppy, yet satisfying. With hair mussed up and breathing ragged, they’d tumble into each other, not sure where one ended and the other began. Somehow the sheets always managed to end up in a tangled heap on the floor, but Diarmuid didn’t really care. Not when every breath was followed with an exchange of loving platitudes and heated kisses.

**Electric**

These were the kind that made Cú’s toes curl and turned his limbs into jelly. It felt like he could barely catch his breath, his heart pounding, only the arms around his waist to keep him grounded. Sometimes Diarmuid would pause, just to build the suspense, before diving back in, the sensation of his tongue and the texture of his lips practically a jolt to Cú’s system. If he had his way, they’d never stop.

**Ferocious**

Harsh and insistent, all-consuming, enough to push Diarmuid to his limit. He fought back, just as hard, delighting in the thrill of their personal battle. To an outside observer, it probably wouldn’t even qualify as a kiss, but he didn’t care what anyone else thought. Not when Cú latched onto his mouth, all teeth and tongue, lighting a fire in his belly, traveling to his neck, then further south, _ oh God. _

**Gluttonous**

Cú honestly couldn’t help it; Diarmuid was just too tasty. Even when he’d laugh and tell Cú to stop, he’d still nip and lick, eager to savor the fullness of Diarmuid’s lips and the scent of his skin and the contours of his body. Over and over, all he wanted to do was devour every inch of that glorious form.

**Honeyed**

So sweet. Who would have guessed the hulking Alter could have such a tender side? Yet when Diarmuid needed reassurance, Cú was all too happy to oblige. He’d stroke his back, then pepper kisses over his forehead and cheeks—lingering on the love spot—before drifting to his lips. All the while, Diarmuid would melt into his arms, his troubles forgotten in the strong embrace. 

**Impulsive**

It was the way the sun caught in his hair, black as night with golden eyes shining like polished bronze, that took his breath away. Awed, all he could whisper was some overused phrase like “_you’re so beautiful, _” but it was enough for Diarmuid to bring their faces together, lips close enough to brush. Just before they did, he whispered the same phrase into Cú’s ear, then sealed it with a kiss.

**Jealous**

Women liked Diarmuid, and he liked women. He refrained from any advances for Cú’s sake, but he was all too aware of those hawk-like eyes whenever he interacted with any obviously smitten maiden. There would never be any restrictions on who he could talk to, but he noticed Cú kissed him just a little more forcefully after any encounter. He didn’t complain, though. He liked it when Cú tugged his hair back and captured his mouth.

**Knightly**

Even if he sometimes scoffed at the concept of chivalry, it made Cú weak in the knees whenever Diarmuid called him “_my Lord. _” There would be the faintest smile, a bent knee, and a whisper of a kiss on the back of his hand. He’d roll his eyes, trying to hide the heat in his face and the shiver down his spine. He had a nagging suspicion that Diarmuid was never fooled. 

**Lazy**

Reserved for those leisurely days, Diarmuid would lay curled together with Cú, their lips and hands gliding across one another. Foreheads pressed together, they’d lock eyes, the sight somehow both mellow and intoxicating, those crimson irises red as wine and just as rich. Yet another gentle kiss, and Diarmuid was a puddle, his only wish to be held forever. 

**Magical**

Why mess with pointless romantic gestures when he convinced himself he was only made for the carnal? Yet the sparkle in Diarmuid’s eyes, the smile that lit up his radiant face, was worth every dinner and outing and gift. Hell, sometimes when Diarmuid found a trinket for him, he’d find himself lost for words, admiring the simple yet elegant beauty of it. How strange to be in wonder of an object, but he realized his breathless state actually came from the intent. Even more so, at the passionate kiss that followed, his lips tingling long after all was said and done.

**Naughty**

Quite plainly, it was a sneak attack. Diarmuid would wait until Cú had his guard down, surprise him with a hug, then sink his face into the abundant “bosom” of his lover. The cries of indignation always fell on deaf ears; he was having too much fun kissing every inch of that magnificent chest. 

**Obsessive**

His favorite thing to do was mark every bit of exposed skin on Diarmuid. He’d start with just lips, sucking and licking, then gentle nibbles, then ramp up to teeth, enjoying the delighted yelp that always followed. Occasionally other Servants would glare at him when they saw the resulting bruises and bites, but it didn’t stop him. He had to let others know Diarmuid was _ his. _

**Poignant**

Cú didn’t like talking about feelings. But there were moments where his lingering gaze told all, when it never left the boisterous forms of his counterparts. Diarmuid would whisk him away, holding him close and stroking those luxurious blue strands as his head lay in his lap, planting kisses in his hair and all over his face. Anything to ease his heart’s burden.

**Quiet**

In the stillest hour of the night, sometimes he’d wake up just to listen to Diarmuid’s soft breathing. There was a simple comfort in their bodies’ proximity, in the way Diarmuid’s hair fell across his face and his mouth hung open, deep in some unseen dream. Secure that no one was watching, he’d taste his lips, content to hear a muffled sigh. When he’d draw back, there was always a crooked grin left behind.

**Rough**

With the wall to his back, he clutched at the cloak as if it were a life preserver. Cú crushed him against the flat surface, grinding their hips together, pinning his arms by his side. Eyes gleaming, he’d chuckle, then assault Diarmuid’s mouth, brutal enough to drip saliva and blood onto the floor. Even if his lips were swollen and painful the next day, Diarmuid reciprocated just as eagerly. Two could play this game. 

**Sleepy**

Intertwined fingers. Pillow hair. Slow blinks, followed by noses rubbing together. There was a thin line between dreaming and reality, but the slight spark created by the union of their lips kept Cú just barely in the latter. Even so, it felt wonderful to just let the tension dissipate from his limbs, to snuggle into Diarmuid’s chest and listen to his heartbeat, pounding steadily away, like a comforting lullaby. 

**Tantalizing**

That stupid tail. If Diarmuid didn’t watch out, when he would lean in for a kiss, he'd often find himself held aloft instead, the appendage curled around his middle as he struggled feebly. Below, Cú would stand with his arms crossed, a mischievous smirk on his aggravatingly handsome face. No matter how much Diarmuid pleaded and cursed, he was still held prisoner, unable to get any closer. That is, until Cú grew bored and ended his cruelty by connecting their lips. 

**Unrelenting**

Amidst the frenzy of battle, Cú lost himself to instinct. Only the blood pumping in his veins and the weapon in his hands registered as real, and when he’d finally emerge victorious, with Diarmuid on his knees in surrender, would he come to his senses. Then he’d claim his prize to the fullest, a new competition he was never sure he actually won, but which was so exhilarating that he never minded. Stealing every breath offered, every sigh uttered, he delighted in the thrill of conquering and being conquered. 

**Vulnerable**

To everyone he met, Cú was the opposite of small. Towering, monstrous, looming… all perfectly acceptable descriptions, but Diarmuid saw the side he kept private. He saw it the first time he’d held his hand, how his eyes widened, how uncertain he appeared as he stared at their fingers, which fit together as if made for one another. He saw it the first time Cú let him keep the lights on—how he avoided mirrors as he dressed, muscles tensed, almost on edge. From this, a solemn promise was made. Diarmuid would murmur into his neck, soothing any worry and insecurity, banishing any doubt with every sip of his lips, light as a feather and far more loving. Enough to bring even the tiniest flicker of a smile to Cú’s face. 

**Warm**

Despite how much he enjoyed their erotic escapades, there was something to be said about the peaceful everyday moments. How pleasant it was to sit in the same room together, to make idle chitchat, or just soak in the other’s presence. Occasionally he’d get clingy and pull Diarmuid into his lap, but disturbing him from a current book or other project seemed taboo. Instead, he’d just relax with Diarmuid on top of him, enjoying his weight and—if he was lucky—a periodic peck on the lips. So mundane, but so indulgent.

**Xeric**

Catching his breath wasn’t an option. At first, he’d resigned himself to simply suffocating, but as their relationship progressed, he learned how to deal with Cú’s never-ending displays of affection. Even when his mouth felt like a desert, the syrupy warmth spreading through his limbs was worth it. He just wished he could take a drink break.

**Yielding**

Every once in a while, Diarmuid’s stubborn streak reared its head. When Cú would bend down to kiss him, he’d jerk away, a devilish smile on his lips. The game quickly turned into a chase, sometimes all over Chaldea, before Cú would catch his prey. Off to his quarters they’d go, where he'd pet and caress Diarmuid until he was a malleable puddle, receptive to every touch. Then, and only then, did he allow Cú his reward of a truly decadent, mouthwatering kiss.

**Zealous**

There were quiet moments. There were passionate ones. But overall, no matter what context, Diarmuid could always tell Cú’s fondness for him. Whether it was humoring his hobbies, a romp in the bedroom, or even just a peck on the cheek, it conveyed everything it needed to. Because somehow they’d found each other, the Knight and the Mad King, utterly and completely devoted to one another in every way. And who wouldn’t get excited about that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next drabble will be a more serious one from Diarmuid's POV. 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	17. Hidden Darkness (Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Master forces Diarmuid to babysit Blackbeard, some things end up surfacing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I haven't updated in a while. I'm very sorry about leaving everyone hanging like that, but hoo boy. I had to cram for boards (I passed, yay!), get my butt into gear for interviews, and other stupid real life things. Also, inspiration and motivation have not been kind to me, so I've been using my free time to focus more on my original work. But good news! I'm back in the game, I have lots of new ideas, and more is on the way!
> 
> This still feels a bit rushed to me, but I'm never fully happy with these drabbles. Anyway, this is one of my big headcanons for Diarmuid and why he's like my fav character. Also, apologies to any Blackbeard fans out there; I needed a strawman, and he was the only one who came to mind.
> 
> As always, enjoy!

At times, there were downsides to being viewed as the nice one. 

Diarmuid rubbed his temples, trying to drown out the incessant whining beside him. Despite what people believed, he wasn’t a total pushover, but it didn’t help his reputation that he always agreed to Master’s requests, no matter how obnoxious. Which described his companion to a T. 

“Tea!” Edward Teach, aka Blackbeard, spat. “Being sent out for tea. Like little errand boys. Why couldn’t Master just wait for the next supplies mission?”

_ Because this has nothing to do with tea, and everything to do with you getting on her nerves. And I got stuck with making sure it takes us several hours. _

Diarmuid shrugged. “Master really likes tea.” He stepped aside as a rather burly gentleman shoved past them. They’d rayshifted to a bustling 19th century marketplace, someplace European, and the air was thick with the smell of fish and meat and pungent body odor. 

Blackbeard continued to grumble, but he stopped as a train of ladies in frocks and skirts passed by. “I suppose it’s not all bad,” he said, his eyes never leaving their rears. “Although I wish they’d show a little more skin.”

Diarmuid didn’t even bother feigning agreement. He just pretended he hadn’t heard. When he stopped to inspect a stand selling a variety of vegetables, he noticed one of the earlier maidens casting him a shy smile. Instinctively, he raised his hand to cover the mole under his right eye. 

Only for it to be knocked away as Blackbeared shoved him, laughing. “Look at you! Like that would do any good.”

“It makes me feel better,” Diarmuid muttered. And it did. It was the pretense of control, even though intellectually he knew he had none. A lesser weight on his conscience, that he’d made an attempt, even if futile, to subvert his curse. 

“What an odd soul you are,” Blackbeard chuckled. “To think capturing the hearts of all beautiful women isn’t the greatest blessing ever bestowed.”

“That’s one way to view it.” Diarmuid turned away as the maiden giggled and batted her eyelashes. “But it also means you can never believe that any woman truly loves you. That she’s not just a slave with no free will.”

“So?”

Diarmuid gaped. With his metaphorical hackles raised, he nearly summoned his spear. “What do you mean _ so? _”

“Well, she doesn’t know it’s not her decision.” Blackbeard laughed. “Oh, she’d be perfectly happy and content, getting to be with someone for whom her love could never fade. What a blessing! For even the happiest couple grows apart and loses interest over time; she would forever have butterflies in her stomach with just a single look.”

“It’s mindless,” Diarmuid whispered. “It distorts them as a person. Twists something beautiful into obsession.”

“I can see you’ve got your mind made up.” Blackbeard patted his shoulder condescendingly. “But I wouldn’t mind a few dozen girls obsessing over me.”

He wouldn’t get it. Diarmuid jerked away from the touch, seething on the inside. He was just like the rest of the Fianna, laughing at how “_lover boy_” could ever view his mark as a curse. And in the beginning, he’d thought the same. Who wouldn’t want to know their bed would never be empty? But they didn’t see the glazed expressions, the sheer grief during any rejection, the way it smothered their mind and destroyed their ambitions. They hadn’t lived through the ordeal of being both captor and possession.

A voice startled him from his trance: “Is that why you’re with the Mad King? Because he won’t fall under your spell?”

“There’s more to it than that.”

Blackbeard snorted. “Now this, I gotta hear. Is it an opposites attract situation, because from my side, I’ve got no idea what you see in that edgelord.” 

The modern slang jarred Diarmuid—just one of the peculiar qualities of being a Servant. “We have more in common than you might think. Sure, there’s differences, but when you get down to it, we just… mesh.”

“Yeah, everybody knows about how much you two ‘_mesh. _’”

Diarmuid frowned as Blackbeard let out another hearty chuckle. “That’s crude.”

“Crude is my middle name.” Now at a stall selling tea, Blackbeard pretended to examine the wares. “Well, you can’t just leave it at that. Tell me about your undying love for your bae.”

Again, such a modern word. Diarmuid sighed. “He’s one of the few servants who’s lived through a geas similar to mine. In an alternate reality, one that no longer exists, yes, but the experience still stands. We reacted differently to it—our outlook as a whole is different. But… in a lot of ways it affected us the same. It’s nice knowing I always have a shoulder to lean on.” He smiled. “He acts gruff, but his loyalty is undying. I admire that. Even when I don’t agree with his philosophies, I respect his strong conviction.”

“Don’t see how any of that warrants a relationship.”

_ Of course you wouldn’t; you can’t warrant a relationship if your life depended on it. _“And what would warrant a relationship according to you?”

Blackbeard examined a basket of dark tea leaves. “Someone who’s hot and always down for a good time.”

“That’s Cú.”

“You’re insane. He doesn’t have a single fun bone in his horrifyingly warped body.”

Diarmuid stiffened, this time actually materializing his spear. The salesman of the tea stall shouted, but he paid the man no mind. With Blackbeard looking on in amusement, he hissed, “Don’t you ever describe him like that again.”

“Ohoho, I’ve struck a nerve. So, Diarmuid the boy scout, you have a sharp edge to you after all.” He sneered. “Both of us know you’d never—_whoa!"_

In less than a blink of an eye, Diarmuid slashed the spear, purposefully nicking Blackbeard’s cheek. The man stumbled back, fingers pressed against the superficial cut, his mouth hanging open. Diarmuid slammed down several coins in front of the cowering salesman and barked, “I’d like fifty grams of everything.” His spear dematerialized, and he leveled a steely glare at Blackbeard. “You don’t know the first thing about me. And you know _ nothing _about Cú.”

They didn’t say another word as they finished and headed to their checkpoint to rayshift back. Once his anger had fizzled, Diarmuid apologized for the incident and Blackbeard didn’t respond. He just stared at Diarmuid, as if seeing him in a new light. Or seeing part of him in a new light. 

It was the part of him he kept buried. His greatest failure as a knight, or so he had thought for the longest time. Knights did not harbor resentment or anger or malice. They were the protectors of the innocent, the upholders of chivalry. There was no room for ugliness. So he denied himself. Surely if he just pretended hard enough, he could live up to the expectations set out for him. 

But it didn’t work. Everything just kept festering, like an infected wound. He’d lie to himself, over and over, secretly dying at his perceived inadequacies. Whenever everything came to a boil, it was always ugly. He cringed whenever he remembered his final moments in the Fourth Holy Grail War. 

But Cú hadn’t reacted that way upon hearing the story. For the first time, someone had told him, “You are not a failure. You’re just human.”

“But knights are supposed to be above all of that,” he’d argued. “I should never have let myself fall into such a place. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t desire such awful things.”

Cú had sighed. “Do you act on these evil desires?”

“Not… usually,” Diarmuid had faltered.

“That’s because you’re a good person.”

“Good people wouldn’t desire such things at all.”

“Oh, they do.” Taking his hand, Cú had brushed his lips against the back of it. “Look at Master. Look at your beloved Artoria." He'd leaned closer. "Even a tool like me can see it. They feel all the same things as you—they just do good regardless.”

That had never occurred to Diarmuid: goodness being not the absence of evil desires, but the ability to do right in spite of them. It had shaken his very foundation. For the first time, he didn’t despise his dark side. His buried side. It was a part of him. And the more he learned about Cú, the more he realized what the other man hid. That despite the harsh exterior, the facade of cruelty he’d been designed for, at his core he was still Cú Chulainn, who was loyal and fierce and could love with such intensity. He pretended he wasn’t, his own self-loathing preventing him from seeing it himself. But not even Grail mud could corrupt him fully.

And Diarmuid was reminded of this as he stole his way into his quarters, where Cú sat waiting for him. He embraced the man, smiling at the surprising tenderness of the gesture, and regaled his expedition to his willing ear. When all was said and done, Cú pulled him in, kissing him slowly, until he’d melted into his arms. 

Opposites attract indeed, he thought, as they lay together that night. The honorable knight with a dark streak had finally found his monster with a heart of gold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Got some fluff planned based on Setsubun next. 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	18. Back Rub (Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cú sulks when Diarmuid runs off and leaves him alone with the other Chaldea kings, but his return makes up for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting at nearly complete for several days now. I'm on ER/ICU rotation right now, and I have to do night shift for 2 weeks, and y'all, it's been rough. At least I start days soon. 
> 
> But anyway, thank you to everyone who comments! After some truly exhausting nights, it makes me so happy to read them. You guys make my life.
> 
> For this drabble, I read Cú Alter's and Diarmuid's dialogue sections in Setsubun, and knew I needed to do something with it. This got more explicit than I intended, and wow, boys? In public? Oh well, hope everyone likes it. 
> 
> Fun fact: Ochoko is the term for the sake cup. Also, the whole sake bit was directly inspired by this [pic](https://66.media.tumblr.com/ce30252fa7c43f461274a550f3930e96/tumblr_p38jkyl7hm1wbtbtso1_400.jpg). 
> 
> Enjoy!

It was too damn loud. 

Cú flicked his tail, his teeth gritted. All he had wanted to do was relax in the hot spring, but with the constant laughter and boasting, that was pretty much impossible. Considering the way Gilgamesh, Ozymandias, and Iskandar were carrying on, part of Cú just wanted to move over and declare that Iskandar’s was the biggest, hopefully ending their contest once and for all. 

He sighed. Where was Diarmuid? He always made things better. The man had been next to him nearly the entire time before he’d rushed off without an explanation, looking somewhat distressed. 

Cú wandered around in search. Commotion toward the far end of the hot spring caught his attention, and… well, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him just a tad jealous. 

Diarmuid was washing Fionn’s back. He scrubbed his washcloth with probably a little more force than was necessary, but hey, the rougher the better in his opinion. For some reason, the Fianna leader didn’t appear all that happy about it, but Diarmuid seemed downright smug, chattering on about something Cú couldn’t make out.

Why was Fionn receiving this kind of attention when Cú was on the verge of a headache? He had to swallow the urge to go over and break it up. But he didn’t. Diarmuid could make his own choices, and he didn’t need to interfere. 

Back by the other kings, he couldn’t help but sulk. The others’ volume hadn’t diminished in the slightest, and he rubbed his temples. He hoped the warm water would stave off his impending migraine.

“Can I offer you sake in this trying time?”

The familiar voice actually made him jerk. He looked past the offered ochoko cup, up at a smiling Diarmuid, who had a mischievous twinkle in his eye. There was that look about him, that same smugness from when he was washing Fionn. It was distressingly attractive, and any hard feelings quickly dissipated. 

Cú accepted the cup. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Good. The feeling’s mutual.” Diarmuid slipped into the water beside him. “I figured you’d want a respite.”

While the sake had a slightly sweet hint to it, Cú couldn’t help his bitterness from resurfacing. “But attending to Fionn was more immediate?”

The color in Diarmuid’s cheeks intensified. “Actually… yes. Him and the Knights of the Round Table, they… planned wrongdoing. I had to stop it.”

“By washing Fionn’s back?”

“It was either that or his life ended by my blade. And I figured I’d have a hard time explaining that to Master.”

The unexpected savagery caught Cú off guard, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Hmm, but it would have been satisfying.”

Diarmuid sidled closer. “I can think of something else that would be satisfying.” He kissed Cú’s shoulder. “And I do need to make amends for running off.”

Cú brought him in even closer, catching his bottom lip in his teeth. “What did you have in mind?”

“Turn around”—Diarmuid pushed himself away—”and I’ll show you.”

His interest piqued, Cú obeyed. An involuntary groan escaped his lips as Diarmuid began to knead his back, hands sliding from his shoulders toward midline. He propped himself up on the edge of the hot spring, still submerging most of his body, but giving Diarmuid full access to anywhere he desired.

Which turned out to be more than he bargained for. After several minutes of Diarmuid artfully massaging his lats and shoulders, one hand crept toward his front, a bit lower. 

Cú hummed as those graceful fingers found their target. “That’s a bit risky, wouldn’t you say? We’re in public.”

“Everyone’s drunk, anyway. They aren’t paying attention to us.”

He could practically hear the shit-eating grin on Diarmuid’s face. Chuckling, Cú closed his eyes—who was he to argue with such impeccable logic? Not when Diarmuid had him, both literally and figuratively, in the palm of his hand. 

The back massage wasn’t anywhere near as effective with one of Diarmuid’s hands preoccupied. However, he still knew how to work with what he had, tracing and tickling every muscle group, and causing Cú an inadvertent shiver on more than one occasion. But it didn’t compare to his other hand. That one stroked and cupped, somehow building up momentum until Cú didn’t think he could handle it anymore, then slowing into languid caressing that had him squirming. 

“Must you torture me?” he asked in a voice closer to a moan than a question. “I thought you were supposed to be making amends for running off.”

“Oh, shush. You know you love it.”

And, despite his protests, he did. By the end of Diarmuid’s teasing, it took all of his restraint not to thrust into the man’s hand. The warmth of the water combined with that grip and the gentle weight as Diarmuid shifted closer and the touch on his back proved to be too much. He hit his breaking point. 

He had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound. His body tensed, then went slack in Diarmuid’s embrace. 

“And you’re sure no one noticed anything?” he asked once he could catch his breath.

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

He turned around and brought Diarmuid into his arms. True to his word, it didn’t seem like anyone was paying attention to them. 

‘_BOOM! _’

Both of them jumped. The other kings glanced around, muttering among themselves, and Cú craned his neck in the direction of the noise. 

“I think it came from the women’s area?” Diarmuid said.

A minute later, a very scorched Blackbeard and Moriarty came over and meekly submerged themselves in the water. Nobody asked them any questions, but the aura of guilt was practically palpable.

Cú shook his head. Looks like he and Diarmuid hadn't been the only naughty ones. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next one will be (very silly) fluff. 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	19. Milestone (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid and Cú hit that not often talked about milestone in their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so dumb, but honestly I feel like it is a big deal the first time this happens in a relationship. Sorry for the delay in updates; these 70+ hour weeks are leaving me pretty drained. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this silly nonsense.

What a good day.

That’s all Diarmuid could think about at the moment. Cú was lying on top of him—just lying, mind you, nothing else—and even though he felt more than a little squished, he didn’t dare disturb the peace. Not when Cú had his head buried in the crook of Diarmuid’s neck and his arms wrapped around his waist and was practically purring like a cat.

They’d both probably be in a food coma soon. Earlier today, they’d attended Chaldea’s first Multicultural Event. Master had told everyone to bring dishes from their various cuisines, and it had been a blast getting to sample everything. Cú hadn’t tried much—food wasn’t really his thing—but Diarmuid had been in heaven. He’d taken a particular shine to the Indian entrees; it was unlike anything he’d ever tried. True, he wasn’t great at handling the spice level—many of the other Servants had laughed as he chugged water—but the flavor was amazing, nonetheless.

So was just lying here, except for one thing. As he absentmindedly stroked Cú’s blue locks, a faint discomfort built within his abdomen. He frowned. The pressure seemed to grow, as did his discomfort, and he almost wanted to groan. He glanced at the relaxed Cú and did his best to shift without jostling him too much when—_oh no!_

He knew the sound. Not as a Servant, as far as he could recall, but from himself and so many others during life. That awful staccato that tapered into a high-pitched whine, bringing with it relief from the pressure in his abdomen, but also mounting horror. _Maybe __C__ú didn’t hear, maybe I’m safe, oh no, oh no, oh no._

No such luck. The man in question lifted his head and stared at Diarmuid in a mixture of confusion and amusement.

“Did you just fart?”

The already present heat in his face increased tenfold. “I… I didn’t mean—it shouldn’t be _possible_, I mean—I’m sorry, oh no, I—yes.”

The raucous laughter interrupted his stammering. It was almost dumbfounding. Cú, who usually only chuckled, actually looked ready to double over. His arms had left Diarmuid’s body and instead clutched his sides as tears steadily dripped down his cheeks.

He took a deep breath, then wiped the moisture away. “They call you Diarmuid of the Radiant Face… no one ever talked about your rear.”

Diarmuid must have been scarlet at this point. “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to.”

“Relax.” Cú shook his head. “I’m not bothered. It’s just amusing to see you so mortified over something so trivial.”

It didn’t seem very funny to Diarmuid. Still, the encouragement did allow some of his heat to dissipate from his face, even if tension remained in his limbs. 

Cú resumed his previous position, nuzzling Diarmuid's neck. When he tensed, however, Cú lifted his head once again. “Are you still upset?”

Diarmuid shrugged.

Cú sighed. “I really don’t care.” A mischievous smile formed, and he sat up. “Now I know I can do this.” He belched, a very loud and undignified sound, and Diarmuid giggled in spite of himself. 

“Okay, my accident doesn’t give you permission to be crude,” he said in-between giggles. “At least I have the excuse of Indian food.”

“And I had a carbonated beverage.” Cú scooped him up, much to his surprise, and peppered a few kisses down his neck. “I’ve been holding it in all night.” He pressed their foreheads together, and heat bloomed in Diarmuid's cheeks at the unexpectedly playful affection. “Better now?”

“Not quite.”

Cú sighed. “I suppose I must resort to drastic measures then.”

Instantly, both hands went to work—one on Diarmuid’s armpit, the other on his side—tickling and teasing and carrying on with a zeal that was, honestly, somewhat painful. Those claws made their presence known, and interspersed with his laughter, Diarmuid let out a few yelps. 

“Cú!” he gasped. “I’m no longer embarrassed, please, you must—”

He hiccuped.

The tickling stopped immediately, and both of them shared a look of, _Wait, that’s possible too?_

“This has been a very educational night,” Cú said as Diarmuid let out another hiccup.

“Easy for you to say.” Diarmuid hiccupped again. “You’re not the one dealing with it.”

“I suppose.” Swinging his legs off the bed, Cú pulled Diarmuid off as well. “Come. Let’s find King Hassan. He’s probably intimidating enough to get rid of those.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Not sure what I'll do next. 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	20. Toasting Marshmallows (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chestnuts roasting on an open fire—wait no, it's marshmallows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my entire world's been turned upside down, and I'm sure a lot of you are feeling the same. My clinical year's been cut short and graduation is canceled, so I'm kind of in limbo until I can get officially licensed. As healthcare workers, I thought the vet school would still have us working, but we're gone now too. To all retail workers, y'all are the real MVPs. And hang on to everyone in these very uncertain times. 
> 
> I needed something cheerful, so have this. Just pure, saccharine goodness. If anybody has any requests, please let me know. Thanks to viceturtle for this lovely [pic](https://ibb.co/Z1nZT2Y) for this chapter.
> 
> As always, enjoy. <3

“Stop twitching. That makes it harder for me to—there we go!”

With a triumphant laugh, Diarmuid speared another marshmallow on one of Cú’s tail spines. Holding it still was a bit harder than it looked, but for Diarmuid’s sake, Cú made sure to grin and bear it. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Externally, he just watched in bored exasperation.

“Are you done yet?”

Diarmuid shook his head. “I want one more. That way, both of us can have three.” He plucked another marshmallow from the bag lying next to them, and a smile played across his handsome face as he speared the sugary treat. Lit from the dancing flames in the fireplace, the expression took on both a beautiful and unnatural quality—shadow and radiance, one and the same. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Not really.”

Even if food had tempted him, Cú wasn’t really interested in the sticky, sweet dessert. This was all at Diarmuid’s behest, and he ignored the frown as his tail slithered just far enough to scorch the fluffy decorations on its spines. To another soul, the heat would have been unbearable, but it wasn’t enough to penetrate his tail’s armor.

“You just have to give it a chance,” Diarmuid said, somehow sounding dignified as he manually rotated Cú’s tail to get even coverage on the marshmallows. “Once I assemble these beauties, you’ll have no complaints. Trust me.”

And Cú did. He let Diarmuid pluck off each marshmallow, now donned in a stylish charred cap, and place them on graham crackers topped off with chocolate.

“Here.” Diarmuid handed one of the little sandwiches over. “Bite down in the middle. You get the best gooiness there.”

To demonstrate, he went first, snapping the graham crackers with his teeth and ending up with a mouthful of white and brown blobs. “Thee? Ith delithious.”

Eyeing the innocuous treat, Cú took his first bite and… dear Lugh, that was _sweet. _It took all of his willpower not to choke on the gelatinous monstrosity now occupying his mouth. Coughing, he swallowed it down with a grimace. “Yes… _delithious_.”

“Oh, fine. At least you tried it.” Diarmuid happily chomped down on his remaining half and finished off Cú’s as well with one giant bite that left him looking like a chipmunk, cheeks puffed out and mouth open. He rested his head on Cú’s shoulder when he could speak again. “I’m proud of you for trying something new.”

“I suppose.”

Like earlier, there was that same musical laugh, the one that made Cú’s heart ache in a way many claimed impossible. His eyes sparkling, Diarmuid plopped himself in Cú’s lap and leaned forward, kissing him with lips still clinging of melted marshmallow and chocolate, sickeningly sweet and yet somehow delectable when it was from _him. _“Is that better, Mr. Grumpy?” he teased as they separated.

“Not sure.” Cú pulled him closer, an inadvertent smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I think I need another one to make certain.”

So Diarmuid acquiesced, uniting their lips, just as decadent and mouthwatering as the first. Humming into his hair, Cú wrapped his arms around Diarmuid, basking in the warmth of the fire and their embrace. White residue still clung to the spines of his tail, but he ignored the stickiness. It could wait. Now was all about a treat far sweeter than little graham cracker sandwiches.

“Hey… Cú?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you let me go?” Diarmuid wriggled a bit, then looked up with a pleading frown. “I want to eat another s’more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	21. Remember This (Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cú gets a little more than he bargained for when he goes to rescue Master from a mysterious assailant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, everybody, got some angst this time around for y'all. Thanks to the wonderful viceturtle aka BitterPatt for the request. I hope it lives up to expectations. 
> 
> Thanks to everybody who comments on this stuff. It means way more than you think that people enjoy my nonsense. And a super huge thanks to viceturtle and Kuma for their drawings. I lose my mind anytime I get one. (Kuma, I hope you're doing alright since I haven't heard from you in a while.)
> 
> For more explanation into characterization, see the end notes below. Enjoy!
> 
> (Warning for dark material and tw: suicide)

The old castle stood in the middle of a dense forest. Tall oaks and elms and other deciduous breeds rose from the uneven floor, their leafy branches overlapping to form a thick canopy that allowed only the most tenacious sunbeams to filter below. Cú had almost missed the sorry structure when he’d rushed into the clearing. With its crumbling exterior and moss-covered walls, it camouflaged well. Only the faint yet acrid smell of smoke had even alerted him to its presence.

Now, he stroke through damp halls, the air so musty it nearly made him gag. Cú powered through it, his tail swishing, covering his nose with his cape. Nothing mattered right now but his goal, the entire reason he’d entered this godforsaken place.

Someone had taken Master. _His_ Master. And they were going to feel every ounce of his formidable wrath.

Beneath the mildew and decay lay the stench of smoke, thicker than outside. He followed its trail, steadily growing stronger, only accompanied by the sharp ‘_click click_’ of his taloned feet on the stone floor. Eventually, orange flickering light spilled from underneath a large, wooden door and he rushed forward, demolishing it within seconds.

Inside was circular, the room furnished with several wall-mounted torches and a solitary chair. Bathed in an orange-yellow haze, Master sat listlessly in said chair in the center of the chamber, her hands bound behind her back by rope that looked ready to fall apart from just a slight breeze. Her head lolled back, but she appeared to be breathing.

Cú scanned the room. Where was the scoundrel who’d done this?

“Show yourself,” he snarled. He strode forward, his grip tightening on Gáe Bolg.

No response.

Someone was here. They had to be. No one would kidnap Master and then leave her unattended like this. Whatever was happening, there was clearly a trap, an ambush,_ something_.

He strained for even the slightest sound as he moved toward Master. It took barely a tug to remove the ropes from her wrists, and he started to hoist her when a light patter came from outside the demolished wooden doors.

Cú whirled to face the intruder. He brandished his weapon, but a sharp pain in his side caught him off guard. It wasn't debilitating, just a superficial wound, but the intensity wasn't what was so bizarre.

It was the fact that Master had inflicted it.

Her teeth were bared—whatever trance she'd been in seemingly gone or perhaps faked. A small shiv poked out of Cú's side, held in her unsteady grasp. All things considered, he could have easily dodged it had it come from anyone other than her, the most unlikely source of all.

"Master?"

"Don't," she hissed. Tears leaked unbidden down her face, and her shoulders shook. "I won't let you hurt him."

Him? Who was she speaking of?

"You heard the lady," came a familiar voice, one that squeezed Cú's heart like a vice.

It couldn't be—it shouldn't be. Cú was the only servant left on this mission. The others had fallen, defeated by the hordes of enemies. There'd been no one other than him accompanying Master to the rayshift point before the mysterious assailant had attacked and whisked her away.

With a gasp, Master removed the shiv and practically flung herself toward the wooden door. Slowly, Cú turned to witness her embrace the graceful, long-legged figure. The figure Cú knew almost more intimately than himself.

Diarmuid. Diarmuid smirked at him, or at least, the caricature standing before him who _looked_ like Diarmuid.

Unlike the forest green and silver-accented black of his typical outfit, this Diarmuid's was a rich ebony accented by red and gold. There was a window to display part of his pectorals, peeking down to the top of his chiseled abdominal muscles, and his pauldron was fashioned to look like a black rose. Those amber eyes, the ones that Cú had stared into so many times, were now almost a ghastly yellow. All together, there was a strange otherworldly beauty to the spectre in front of him; a paradox both sinister and sensuous, and a thrill actually went down Cú's spine from taking it all in.

"Hmm," the spectre said, cocking his head. He stroked Master's hair as she nuzzled against him. "She talked about you, you know. Mentioned you had a rather special relationship with another version of me." He leered. "Seems I have good taste."

Cú ignored the obvious bait. "What do you want? What's wrong with her?"

The class variant of Diarmuid opened his mouth in mock offense, placing one hand on his chest, right at the level of the exposed window. "My goodness, why must you assume such awful things about me? There's nothing wrong—why, look how happy she is!"

"Don't make me repeat myself," Cú growled as he took a step forward. The figure didn't retreat, but just looked on in amusement. "I will snap your pathetic spine."

Not-Diarmuid blew a raspberry. "Boring. Be more original with your threats." He unwrapped Master's arms from around his waist and gestured toward Cú. "Darling, will you do something about this?"

The glazed wonder on her face was almost painful to watch. She nodded, then whirled around, expression now hard. "Berserker!" She raised her hand, where a Command Seal glowed. "I order you not to attack this man!"

Fuck. This situation was getting a bit more complicated than he'd anticipated. Reluctantly, he lowered his spear.

"Good," Not-Diarmuid chirped. He patted Master's head like a puppy, and she squeaked in delight. "What a sweet little doll you are."

Again, Cú growled, "What have you done with her?"

"Nothing." Those yellow eyes glimmered. "I just met her, said hello, then—" He sighed dramatically. "She was head over heels, mad as a hatter. Blame me if you must for my accursed face... more trouble than it's worth, honestly."

The sarcasm was so biting Cú was surprised his armor didn't have teeth marks. He frowned. What class was this servant? His Diarmuid was never so flippant about his curse; he especially wouldn’t flaunt it in front of an enemy. He stared at the mole on the man's frustratingly handsome face—that wasn't the normal love spot. He was sure of it. While potent, anyone with Magic Resistance above a B grade should have been immune. Master easily qualified. Yet there she stood, gazing with so much unrestrained adoration it was actually sickening. How?

As if he could read Cú's thoughts, Not-Diarmuid smiled. "I can see you're wondering how she was ensnared." With a flourish, he pointed at the spot where Cú's eyes had lingered just a moment before. "Ta-da! Unlike whatever version you know, I embrace my curse. I don't try to water it down or make some sniveling excuse, no—all women are playthings. What does it matter if their hearts are broken?" He winked. "At least fun was still had."

"Bastard," Cú spat. He wouldn't allow Master to be defiled by scum like this, by—he tensed. An Avenger or... an Alter. Both, perhaps. That had to be it. No other version of Diarmuid was this repulsive.

Alter Diarmuid tutted. "Oh, stop being such a spoilsport. Just because you're mad about your precious master rendering you impotent doesn't mean you can't join in."

With surprising speed, the alter lunged toward him and knocked him on his back. Pain bloomed across his spine as it struck the flagstones, even as rage seared in his core. It didn't amount to anything, though. The Command Seal had paralyzed his hands and feet at the first murderous impulse; he couldn't strike back.

Alter Diarmuid, in the mere seconds after his attack, now straddled Cú's waist. He leaned forward. "You look even better from this angle." He propped himself up on his elbows, leaning his chin against his closed fist as he purred, "I know I already said this, but it bears repeating: Regular Me has impeccable taste, because you are _yum_."

Cú shoved him off. Even if he couldn't attack, that didn't mean he just had to lie there. "What do you want with me? With her?"

Alter Diarmuid leaned back, regarding Cú through half-lidded eyes. "It's not about what I want. It's what my master wants." He jerked his head back at Cú‘s own master. "Apparently having Chaldea's master in the palm of my hand means he can control Chaldea from behind the scenes."

Cú nodded. "I see." He curled his lip. "Why tell me? You know I won’t abide by this."

Alter Diarmuid patted his hand. "Well, you don't have to. I just tell this little cutie here to use another Command Seal, we go back to Chaldea as one big happy family, and no one's the wiser."

It still didn't sit right with Cú. This seemed too risky, too dramatic. Why had this servant already played his trump card like this? It would have been infinitely safer just to have him bring his lovestruck Master back and control Chaldea in secret. Bringing another servant into the fray, especially one as powerful as him, could jeopardize everything.

He decided to play it coy. "Sounds pretty foolproof." He sighed. "It seems like you've won."

"Not yet." Alter Diarmuid moved forward again on all fours, rump held high. As ridiculous as it looked, and as much as Cú hated to admit it, it did draw his eyes everywhere Alter Diarmuid must have wanted. The man in question grinned again. "Can't we be friends, hmm?"

He brought his face closer, and Cú's head swam from that scent of evergreen and sandalwood and something else, something that was just a tad off.

"That's all I really want. My master told me to get you on our side, and even if I'm acting under his orders, this is still a fun one to carry out." He prodded Cú's nose. "Once we get in Chaldea, I'll spare _him_ if you play along."

Cú's blood boiled—this was going too far. He needed to end this, and he needed to end it now.

"Of course." He smiled, showing off as many sharp teeth as he could. "Any good dog knows their place." Briefly, his eyes flicked over to Master, who stared open-mouthed. She practically radiated jealousy. It was a bit of a gamble, but it was the only one he had at the moment.

To Alter Diarmuid's surprise, Cú grabbed around him the waist and kissed him, as deeply as he could. The figure in his arms went limp, then kissed him back just as fervently, tangling fingers in hair and then—

"_He's mine, you son of a bitch!_" came the wail, and Cú barely had a moment to react before Master barreled down on him, shoving Alter Diarmuid aside. Tears streamed down her anguished face. "I won't let you have him."

Truthfully, it wasn't hard to fend off her weak strikes with the shiv, but Cú let her land a couple just for her own catharsis. Then, praying she'd forgive him, he struck her—not hard, just enough to disorient—and pulled her close. He aimed his spear at her neck.

Alter Diarmuid had already leapt to his feet. "What are you doing? She's your master!"

"The Command Seal only said I couldn't attack you, not her." Cú tilted his head. "You let us escape and I won't murder her right now. But if you don't... well, have fun explaining that to your master."

"You wouldn't."

He nicked her neck, and she whimpered.

"Fine," Alter Diarmuid snapped. Fury rolled off of him like waves, his normally perfect face screwed up in rage, twisted and ugly. "Fine, I concede defeat. You win."

Cú didn't lower his spear. With Master still held against him, he backed away, toward the demolished wooden doors. The alter folded his arms, his teeth clenched, almost feral in appearance, but it wasn’t.. genuine. Cú couldn’t put his finger on it.

He kept moving, never taking his eyes off the figure in front of him. Which leaped forward, inhumanly fast.

Acting on reflex, Cú threw Master to the side and raised Gáe Bolg to block. There was always a loophole to a Command Seal; he wouldn't let Master die here.

But he didn't need to do anything. Alter Diarmuid grabbed Gáe Bolg by the shaft, then effortlessly impaled himself on it.

Cú could see his own shock reflected back at him in those yellow eyes. Blood pooled at his feet, and a trickle dribbled out of the alter's mouth.

"I couldn't," he rasped. "My master would have done this himself... I won't allow another wretch of a man to shame me. If I was to die, I wanted it to be at your hand." He laughed—a harsh, choking sound—and cupped Cú's face. He slowly traced a circle with his thumb. "Poor Child of Light," he gurgled, "always destined to kill those you love most." He leaned closer to Cú's frozen form. Then, his body already disintegrating, he whispered into Cú's ear before he was gone forever.

* * *

"Ritsuka." Dr. Roman rushed forward and clasped her hand. "You're alright! I lost your signal there, we were so worried—”

"I'm fine." Master shook her head, then pushed his hands away, flashing a shaky smile. "We made it out. Cú took care of me."

At his name, he nodded, trying to hide his own unease. While Dr. Roman led Master away, he headed off. What a surreal mission. Not just coming across Alter Diarmuid, but the way the whole thing had played out... it didn't make sense. Perhaps it was an effect of being a different class variant, but Diarmuid would have never been that reckless. He would've anticipated the jealousy his curse would cause. Why had he filled Cú in on the plan? Why had he failed?

He straightened. What if it hadn't been a failure? What if it was just a ploy to hurt him? A suicide mission?

"Cú!"

From down the hall came the real Diarmuid, forest green and bright and smiling, his eyes so full of love that Cú thought he would melt. "Cú, I'm so glad, I heard they lost the signal and—is something wrong?" The joy in his expression faded to worry. "You look shaken."

"It’s of no concern." Cú forced a laugh, and—although the worry didn't entirely disappear—Diarmuid did seem to let the matter go. "How were things in my absence?"

"Okay." Diarmuid took his hand. "I missed you, of course."

"I missed you too," Cú said, his voice almost cracking. He pulled Diarmuid close to distract from his near-blunder, breathing in his scent and relishing in the warmth of his body, that he was alive and whole and not covered in blood and shuddering with his last remaining breaths. A couple stray tears escaped, so rare for them to ever see the light, as those parting words crawled through his mind like vermin:

"**_Remember this moment_**," the spectre had said, yellow eyes glowing red in his final throes, "**_for it’s only a matter of time before it happens to the real one_**."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so what happened here? For Alter Diarmuid’s characterization, I imagined him as a version that’s manipulative to women. He fully embraces his curse and views women as toys; their feelings and consent don’t matter. At the same time, the traits that normal Diarmuid values above everything—loyalty, chivalry—mean nothing to alter. He resents any Master he has, remembering only his lords that failed him at every turn. He’ll use any reason to rebel, even if it means failure. Beneath everything lie Diarmuid’s feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing, but dialed up to 11 and on steroids. He can’t stand any person that would love him, and believes his very existence to be a mistake. Death isn’t much of a punishment; it’s the inevitable, and he’d rather it be at his own hand than forced by another. 
> 
> Let me know if you have any other questions. As always, thanks for reading!
> 
> Bonus: here's two pics of [Alter Diarmuid](https://ibb.co/QJvhJHJ) and [Cú](https://ibb.co/BC4bFHk) done by the fabulous viceturtle aka BitterPatt. WARNING FOR BLOOD
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	22. Heat Wave (Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the thermostat breaks, Chaldea descends into chaos in spite of Dr. Roman's best efforts. At the same time, Diarmuid has no idea how to handle a certain pink-haired queen—plus Cú's resulting reclusiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember when I said over 5K words is too long for a drabble? Never mind apparently! I was a little torn between rating this one T or M, and I decided on the latter just because of a few suggestive comments. This is a long one, folks, but it's got a little of everything: friendship, humor, men in swimsuits, and even emotional revelation! Please leave a comment if you like my stuff, because I worked really hard on this and it makes everything worthwhile to know people are reading. Even if it's a short comment. 
> 
> Story Notes: Emiya's swimsuit is based on his speedo from Fate/Extra while Caster Cú's is based on this [figurine](https://static.myfigurecollection.net/pics/figure/large/674839.jpg?rev=1562550628). I chose Saber Medb's second ascension for her swimsuit, as—let's be real—it's the cutest. Someday I will have Cú and Medb actually interact and write her as a legitimate three-dimensional character instead of a caricature, but for right now I'm having fun writing her as That Bitch™. She's great.
> 
> See the end notes for a picture from the amazing viceturtle aka BitterPatt, plus a pic from Kuma. Enjoy!

Overhead, the fluorescent lights beamed down like an alien sun, cruel and uncaring. Around Diarmuid, the gray chrome of the chamber’s walls reflected bright halos, almost humming with heat. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow. But he would endure. He always—

“It’s so hot!” groaned Artoria, shattering his facade and bringing him into the depressing present. All he could do was glumly nod.

The heat was only made worse by the number of people. Dr. Roman and Master had called for a Chaldea-wide meeting, and human workers and servants alike packed the room to the brim.

“Everyone!” Dr. Roman waved his arms over his head, the sweat stains under his armpits apparent even with the white material. Next to him, Master Ritsuka had changed out of her usual garb into a tank top and shorts, but she still looked flushed and miserable. “As everyone knows, we’re experiencing an unprecedented heat wave. Currently, maintenance is working nonstop to figure out why the heating system is malfunctioning, whether it be due to mechanical causes or malicious magic, but please bear with us during this difficult time. We realize everyone is incredibly uncomfortable and we are doing our best to make things more bearable.”

A grumble went up throughout the room. Diarmuid glanced behind him—the thermostat currently read 38 degrees Celsius. Thankfully it had finally stopped climbing.

Another sigh from Artoria caught his attention. Right after Dr. Roman’s message, she’d switched to her Archer class, most likely to utilize the more heat-friendly outfit and accessories. Many of the other female servants had also made the switch to their summer variants, and the amount of exposed skin in the room caught the eye of quite a few male servants. Blackbeard looked like a kid in a candy store.

“Ugh!” Artoria sprayed herself with her water gun, rivulets running off the ends of her hair and trickling down her chest. “I don’t even care if I look ridiculous right now; I can’t handle it.”

“Can I borrow it when you’re done? Diarmuid asked.

She nodded and handed it over.

While he’d already shucked the top half of his outfit earlier in the day, the lower half still baked his legs in an uncomfortable prison of cloth. Aiming the water gun, he drenched himself from the waist down. The cool relief was enough to make him sigh.

“Um…” Artoria glanced away, a light blush creeping into her cheeks as she accepted the water gun back. “You… maybe should have picked a better spot...”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She means you look like you pissed yourself,” said Cú Lancer as he strolled over, also clad only from the waist down. He folded his arms. “Where’s your scarier other half? I thought he’d be over here.”

Diarmuid sighed. “No. He skipped the meeting. He’s been hiding in his room ever since you-know-who was summoned.” He jerked his head as the aforementioned unnamable person sashayed by. Wearing only a tiny skirt and bikini top, Medb acted like she owned the place, strutting around in her wedge heels and tossing her pink pigtails.

Cú nodded. “Yeah, don’t blame him. She’s been bugging all of us constantly. But then again, in a way that’s why I respect her.”

Diarmuid and Artoria gaped at him. “What!?”

“Hear me out”—he cleared his throat—“so many women and men are so hard to read, always pussyfooting around when it comes to dating and sex. I can respect a person that comes up and says, ‘Hey, I’m here to bang. No mind games.’ Ya feel?”

Artoria snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind should I ever decide to woo you.”

“Oh, love.” Cú clasped her hand in his. “The world can barely handle us separately—you really think they’d be prepared for that level of power couple?”

Diarmuid grinned as she laughed.

While the two of them moved into what pet names they’d call each other (mostly playful insults), he headed off. Cú Lancer’s remark about his berserker counterpart had reminded of his intended mission. Within a few minutes, he wandered through the SSR servants’ corridor until he arrived at the proper door. He knocked three times, then just let himself in.

Like he’d expected, Cú didn’t greet him as he entered. Instead, he sat rigidly on his bed, glistening with perspiration. He hadn’t removed a single item of his elaborate ensemble: not the cape, the red feathered boa, the black suit—none of it.

“Hey,” Diarmuid said, moving to face his front. “I just wanted to check up on you.”

Cú stared at him, as if he didn’t even hear the question. His eyes lingered over Diarmuid’s wet crotch. “Did you have an accident?”

“It’s just water, don’t worry.” Diarmuid moved closer before any other questions could be asked. “Would you like to take anything off? You look really uncomfortable.” He gestured at himself. “I’m only half-dressed and I’m still dying.”

To his surprise, Cú scowled. “My chest is already bare; I’m showing plenty of skin. I’m fine.” He turned away, to which Diarmuid took as his cue to leave.

Upon exiting, he had to resist a sigh. He knew there would be changes in Cú’s behavior because of Medb's summoning. Hell, it would have been odd if there hadn’t been. But it still worried him to no end how withdrawn the man had become. Since the heat wave had started, Cú hadn’t set foot outside his quarters. Would his desire for isolation resolve on its own or were drastic measures required?

He didn’t get to ponder this much, because back in the main Chaldea lounge, everything had descended into chaos. Most of the servants were marching around and chanting a single phrase: “WE WANT EQUALITY!”

Diarmuid pulled Arash aside. “What’s going on?

“Somehow a discussion broke out amidst the male servants about how they wished to wear swim attire as well. This soon grew heated, and now we’ve reached our current state.”

Nodding, Diarmuid glanced at a nearby group of female servants, all clad in bikinis. “I suppose that makes sense. While that clothing appears rather impractical, it does seem cooler than most of our outfits.”

Arash furrowed his brow. “Wait… do you not know there are different swimwear for men and women?”

As soon as the question left his lips, the nearby group of women all began giggling. “Diarmuid!” gushed Tamamo. “We’ll lend you one of our outfits. We’d love to see you in it!”

His cheeks burned as they continued hooting and he quickly excused himself.

For several minutes, he wandered through the hallways, the mantra of “WE WANT EQUALITY!” still echoing through each corridor. He finally stopped in one of the smaller Chaldea kitchens. The air shimmered from the heat, almost mirage-like, but there was one appliance here that could aid him. He opened the refrigerator.

The icy blast was like heaven. He closed his eyes, basking in the frigid air, letting the sweat evaporate off his body. This was exactly what he’d want—

“Mind if I join you, knight boy?”

The voice jarred him. Standing right next to him, wearing the most devious smile he’d ever seen, was none other than Queen Medb herself. She held a red popsicle in one hand while her other rested on her hip.

“Seems like you do have something in your pretty head after all,” she crooned. “The fridge was a smart move.”

He scowled and closed the fridge door. “What do you want?” Realizing the stupidity of the question, he amended it immediately. “I’m not letting you have Cú. We’re not breaking up.”

One perfectly manicured hand flew in front of her mouth as her eyes widened in a theatrical fashion. “Oh my, _Diarmuid_. That wasn’t what I was going to say! I would _never _try to break you two up.” She nudged his side. “Gotta stop projecting there—I’m not a homewrecker like you, honey.”

He grit his teeth. That was a _dangerous _button to push.

Medb smiled—another overly saccharine, practiced maneuver. She twirled one of her pink pigtails. “Listen… I’ve made my feelings toward your partner no secret. Everyone’s well aware of our history.”

“Yes, everyone knows how you dunked him in Grail mud, twisted him into a version of himself he hates, and sapped all of his joy to make him miserable.”

She scoffed. “So disrespectful! All I did was transform a work of art into a _masterpiece! _My beloved Cú, but bigger, stronger, and more ruthless, with an appetite for destruction that can’t be sated and an even bigger appetite for—ahem—post-battle activities.” She cast him a sly look. “And I didn’t even bring up the bedroom modifications, which—by the by—I’ve heard you’ve been enjoying quite a lot. _You’re welcome._”

Diarmuid folded his arms. “Get to the point.” He didn’t think he could stand listening to her much longer.

“Fine.” Medb licked her popsicle. “Yes, when I was first summoned, I will admit I was furious to find out my darling Cú had moved on and found himself another. But here’s the thing—I’m also not blind.” She batted her eyelashes, sidling closer even as he took a step back. “I don’t blame Cú for snatching you up, because let’s be real—you’re a 5-star course if I ever saw one.”

This time, when she licked her popsicle he made a face.

“I think we could make a deal—I want to see my sexy beast again, and I’m a very _persuasive _person. He was made for me; he’ll come running back eventually. But—” She ran a finger over his abdomen, and he flinched. “You’re scrumptious too, so I think we could all put aside our differences and have a couple of playdates together. You know, as the French say—a _ménage à tru__.”_

“It’s _trois_,” he snapped before the words sank in. His mouth hung open. “Wait, you’re—”

“Shh.” She placed a finger against his lips. “Just think about it.” She winked. “If there’s any blood left in _that _head, of course.” Then, with one last conspicuous lick of her popsicle, she sashayed away.

* * *

“Huh.”

Cú Lancer cocked his head as Diarmuid finished the story, still fanning himself. He, Diarmuid, and Artoria were all lazing around in a lounge, legs propped up on the couch arms, their skin practically stuck to the seats. Sometime later, Diarmuid figured, he’d have to peel himself free, but for now he just slumped despondently.

“So turns out Medb didn’t just want company, she was looking for a crowd,” Cú continued.

“It is good news, though,” Artoria piped up. “Now you know she’s not aiming to break you and Alter up.”

“Yeah, like I said”—Cú gestured at Diarmuid—“she cuts right to the chase. Straight to business.”

None of their rationalizations cheered him up. Instead, he leaned his head back, exhaling slowly through his nose. Why did this bother him so much? Of course Medb would have nefarious intentions, she always did, but somehow the fact that it involved him as well made his stomach knot. How would his Cú react?

“Did you hear the news about rayshifting?”

He jerked his head toward Cú Lancer. “What about it?”

“It’s offline,” Artoria explained. “Apparently it’s not functioning properly at this temperature.”

“Great,” he groaned. Just another thing to go wrong—now they couldn’t even participate in missions or head somewhere else to escape the heat.

“If worse comes to worse, let’s just break out of here and make friends with some penguins,” Cú said. He laughed. “First one out can declare themselves emperor.”

“—or maybe you could get with the times and ditch the blue suit,” said a voice eerily similar to Cú’s own, most likely because it _was _his own.

Lancer’s mouth opened wide. “What? Where did you get that!?”

Both Emiya and Caster Cú had entered the room wearing—what Diarmuid assumed to be—men’s swimsuits. Emiya’s left little to the imagination, only a black, shiny strip of fabric that looked more like underwear, while Caster Cú’s resembled blue shorts, albeit very _small _shorts. The rest of his outfit was gone besides his fingerless gloves.

Diarmuid frowned. “Why keep the gloves?”

“Who cares!” Cú Lancer hopped to his feet. “Where do I get one, Spearless Me? You better fess up!”

After a bit of arguing, accusations, and a random tangent about turtles, Emiya and Caster Cú finally relented that Dr. Roman was distributing a large selection of men’s swimsuits in various colors, styles, and sizes in the main Chaldea lounge.

“But you better hurry,” Emiya said. “They’re going fast.”

That was all they needed to hear. Both them raced each other, Diarmuid taking the shortcut through a nearby kitchen, while Cú bowled over Sherlock and Moriarty right outside the lounge doors. Dr. Roman looked up as they skidded to a halt in front of him.

“There’s still a few left; you’re just in time.”

They both took board shorts—blue for Cú, green for Diarmuid—plus a rather ratty black pair with red trim for Cú Alter. _His tail will destroy most of if anyway, _Diarmuid rationalized to himself as his fingers skimmed over a hole in the thigh. Still, guilt nibbled at him for grabbing such a ragged piece of clothing.

Cú Lancer happily stretched once they’d both changed. “This feels AMAZING! I—”

He didn’t get to say anything else before a nearby Rider pelted both of them with water balloons. “Two lancers!” Achilles crowed. “That’s gotta be ten points at least!”

“You’re going down!” Cú yelled back as he charged forward, ignoring Dr. Roman’s screech from behind on how the heat wave wasn’t an excuse to set up a water park. And as Diarmuid exited the lounge, he found that the rest of Chaldea didn’t seem to care for his opinion, either.

There was a gigantic Slip ‘N Slide stretching through the main hallway while several other servants had acquired water guns similar to Artoria’s to supplement their water balloon arsenals. After getting sprayed and pelted a few more times, he came upon Artoria herself roughhousing with a few of the child servants.

“People are playing volleyball in the sparring arena,” she said, slightly out of breath even as her eyes sparkled. “And there’s little kiddie pools and sprinklers and ice cream, and—for the adults—Iskandar and Gilgamesh acquired a lot of wine. We should join!”

He rubbed the back of his neck. It sounded like a lot of fun—honestly more fun than what he had planned—but he’d already committed to another task. “I’ll join later,” he said, wincing at how unsure he sounded.

Her eyes fell on the extra swimsuit. “Are you bringing that to Cú?” At his nod, she leaned in and whispered, “Are you going to tell him about Medb’s proposition?”

He sighed. “I think I am. It’s going to be awkward, but I don’t want to keep things from him.”

She wished him good luck with a sad but knowing smile, and he headed off, back to the SSR servants’ corridor.

Not much had changed inside Cú’s quarters other than a newly acquired oscillating fan. The berserker appeared a bit less flushed with it present, but Diarmuid still internally cringed after taking in every sweat-soaked piece of his ensemble.

“I brought you something.” He held out the swimsuit. “It might make you feel better—”

“I’m fine,” Cú interrupted. His eyes never left the blank expanse of wall in front of him. “It’s not required.”

Diarmuid stood there for a few seconds, hemming and hawing, before he placed the swimsuit on the foot of the bed. “In case you change your mind,” he said, laughing awkwardly.

No response.

Hesitantly, he sat next to Cú. “Hey… I have something to tell you, and I’m not bringing it to your attention to make you upset, but just because I don’t wish for there to be secrets between us.” He ran a hand through his hair, steeling his nerves. The fact that Cú hadn’t moved or even bothered to look at him the entire time only made his anxiety worse. “I ran into… um… you-know-who, and I do have some good news—she’s not trying to break us up—”

“She just wants to engage in a threesome. Yes, I’m aware. She'd already approached me with the same request.”

Diarmuid nearly fell off the bed. “Wait—how… you knew!?” His mind reeled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Cú shrugged. “I wasn’t interested, and I knew you wouldn’t be either. Why bring it up?”

It made sense, but hurt still bloomed inside Diarmuid’s chest. Even if Cú didn’t think it was important, Medb represented a significant portion of his past, and regardless of how he tried to act, any advances on her part still had an impact. The room suddenly felt almost cold, so strange to feel under the current circumstances, and Diarmuid left with only a clipped goodbye from Cú.

He kicked the wall out of frustration once he was a few meters away from Cú’s door. Now that he’d exited, the hurt had morphed into indignation, and part of him wanted to march back and grab the swimsuit—why bother putting in effort if Cú just wanted to be an antisocial blob? Hell, why put in any effort at all when Cú couldn’t even put in the bare minimum!

Another water balloon bursting on his head distracted him from his mood. Grinning, he chased after the assailant and soon found himself in the converted sparring arena, featuring quite a few attractions that would “cause significant water damage,” according to a beleaguered Dr. Roman. Nobody else shared this sentiment, and Diarmuid joined a team with Artoria, the rest of the Round Table, and the Celts in a water fight against the Indian servants, Ozymandias’ crew, and Quetzalcoatl. By the end of it, everyone was drenched to the bone from the onslaught and the fray had devolved into people just whacking each other with pool noodles.

In the thick of the chaos, Diarmuid laughed, relishing in the spray and the chill of the water. Yes, his heart was racing from the constant exercise, but for the first since the heat wave had started, he wasn’t burning up.

While he sparred with Quetzalcoatl, a figure off to his right caught his eye. Medb waggled her fingers and winked, and he stumbled as his opponent smacked him in the stomach with her noodle.

“Time out,” he called, but Quetzalcoatl didn’t even bat an eye before chasing down Lancelot.

Sitting in a corner, he rested his arms on top of his bent knees. Now that a couple of hours had passed since his angry departure, the emotion had fizzled into guilty worry yet again. He shouldn’t have been that harsh on Cú. Had their positions been reversed—Gráinne instead of Medb—he wasn’t sure how he would react. Would he treat her like any other servant, maintaining a polite, but distant, demeanor? Or would he be thrown into internal turmoil, wondering how to behave and how to sort through his own feelings and grudges and lingering affection?

He buried his head. Too complicated. Everything was just too much sometimes. He was trying to overcome a flood with nothing but a bucket and a prayer.

“Diarmuid!” Artoria raced over and grabbed his hand, flushed from excitement. “There’s a toast. Come on!”

Once they’d settled near their teams, Diarmuid barely registered Artoria shoving a glass of wine in his hand. Iskander stood in the center, just as bright and fiery as his beard, beaming at all of them.

“Today, we have experienced adversity,” he boomed. “It threatened us at all times, ruining our morale and squashing our spirits.” He raised his glass. “But, amidst the turmoil, we rose above. We persisted. Because we asked ourselves the all-important question—”

“How can I ever help the person I love?” muttered Diarmuid under his breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear, yet Artoria tensed beside him.

“—how can we have fun? And to all of you, I ask: did you have FUN?”

The resounding “_YES!” _was practically deafening. Everyone tipped back their glasses, gulping down their wine as if taking a shot, before another servant clambered in the center, drunkenly toasting water balloons. Someone shoved Diarmuid, spilling his drink, and he resigned himself to the corner again. Better leave the merriment to those that actually felt merry.

“Diarmuid?”

He glanced up at a misty-eyed Artoria, no longer clutching a wine glass. She sat beside him.

“Diarmuid,” she repeated, giving that same sad yet knowing smile from earlier in the day, “you’re enough.” She squeezed his hand, and he let their fingers interlock, fighting the lump in his own throat. “You always have been.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, for he didn’t know what else to say, not after she’d answered the question he hadn’t even voiced. Much to his embarrassment, a stray tear rolled down his cheek, but Artoria didn’t comment. She just scooted closer, and he pulled her in for a hug.

In that moment, he had never felt so grateful that she didn’t complain when his tears wet her hair.

* * *

_It’s just a door,_ he told himself. _You can knock._

Still, he stood there doing nothing. Just staring. He and Artoria had talked for over an hour, and finally he’d built enough courage to head down to Cú’s quarters. To his chagrin, all of the relief from the afternoon’s activities had faded, and now the air smothered him like a wet blanket.

Like earlier, he knocked three times, then let himself in. Cú still sat on his bed, but his eyes had finally left the blank wall and were now focused on the ratty swimwear, which he turned over and over in his hands.

His head jerked, and he sheepishly deposited the piece of clothing back on the foot of his bed.

“It’s for you,” Diarmuid said. “You can wear it if you want.”

Apprehensively, Cú glanced over at it. “Maybe I will,” he murmured. He plucked it up, still not meeting Diarmuid’s gaze, and mumbled, “Would you give me some privacy?”

Diarmuid blinked. “I—sure, I guess, but…” He laughed awkwardly. “It’s not as if you’ve never changed in front of me before. I mean… we are a couple.”

Cú tensed. He sucked in a breath. “Yes, we are.” His shoulders slumped. “But perhaps we shouldn’t be.”

It didn’t register at first. Diarmuid opened his mouth when the words pierced his brain and something even deeper. Everything swayed, the room tilting as his stomach roiled and his lungs constricted, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think anything except _whywhywhy. _

Then all at once, he cracked, a deep fissure right through this heart and soul and entire being. He stormed forward, grabbing Cú’s shoulders. “Look at me!” he screamed.

Cú didn’t. He just murmured, “You don’t need to make a scene—”

“No!” Diarmuid was shaking, he wasn’t sure when it had started, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t do anything but let the flood overwhelm him because his emotional equivalent of a bucket and a prayer just wasn’t enough. “I’m not leaving, and I’m not sitting idle while you wither away. She’s not going to win! I love you, you big idiot, and no matter what happens, she’s never getting her rotten little hands near you ever again, because I’m not giving up on you! Ever! And all I ask is that you just… just… fucking _talk _to me!” He took a deep, shuddering breath, letting the waves pass over him and seep out into the room, letting it drain until the tempest had passed.

There was silence. It stretched on and on for several minutes, Cú still staring at his hands, before he finally said, “It’s not about her.”

“What?”

“It never was,” Cú continued.

He hung his head, and Diarmuid realized he was still clutching his shoulders. He let go, unsure whether to sit or stand, unsure about anything because if the problem wasn’t Medb, then _what was it?_

Cú let out a quiet breath. “I didn’t care what anyone thought about me before. I knew I was a warped version of the Child of Light, knew I shouldn’t have existed even though I did, that it was only at the whims of someone else, her bizarre ‘ideal.’ It didn’t bother me if others pitied me or hated me or were disgusted by me because I only existed for her, not them. Not even my dislike of my own form mattered.” He fidgeted, and Diarmuid couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Then you come into the picture, and suddenly I care about someone’s opinion. Not what anyone else thought of our relationship, but your happiness mattered, your idea of me had merit. I was so grateful but confused for your affection, because yes, you’d tease me about our strangely similar yet inverse views, but beyond our shared experiences, I had no idea what you saw in me. I was glad for it, secretly relieved, but it never made sense.”

“Oh Cú,” Diarmuid whispered, but the man shook his head.

“I thought as long as I had you that would be enough, and it was… until she arrived. At first, she behaved as expected—the advances, the crude propositions. But then she spent the rest of her time eyeing you, and it was… I don’t know how to describe it. I’ve never cared for her, still don’t, but if I was created to be her ideal—a bizarre one that’s revolting to others—and suddenly not even _I’m_ enough for her, then how can I be enough for you?”

“Don’t say that!”

“But is it wrong?” Cú finally looked over, and the hurt in his eyes stung Diarmuid’s heart. “It’s all I can think about. I am defective in every way—a twisted Cú Chulainn, a terrible king, and an inferior ideal not even suited for my intended purpose, only a sham of a once dignified hero fused with a monster. You may deny it, but even you see it. At every visit today, it’s been obvious you’ve only done so out of obligation rather than desire.” He turned away. “I don’t wish to burden you or anyone else with my presence. You’ve been good to me, but you should have someone you deserve, not someone you pity.”

The words hung in the air like poison, suffocating Diarmuid, worse than the ever-present heat. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Never in a million years would he have guessed this problem. Yes, he’d seen how Cú hated mirrors, how tense he grew at times during casual affection, but never did something as banal as _body dysmorphia_ enter his consciousness. The guilt was nearly unbearable—how stupid of him! He’d been so secure in his own devotion that he’d never properly made it evident to Cú. 

“I’ve been a lousy partner,” he said, as much to himself as to Cú, because only now was there clarity and he needed to hear it aloud. He folded his arms. “This whole time I've assumed I knew what the problem was, but I never bothered actually talking to you about it. Instead, I've been more focused on how it would affect me than how you were hurting. That’s my fault, and I’m sorry.” He cupped Cú’s face, to which he twisted his head away. “Please… look at me. I know I could have done so much more, but I need you to know that you can always share these things with me. Because I’d have told you then, and I’ll tell you now… none of it is true. I don’t pity you. All I have is love and admiration for you—as a warrior, as a friend, and as my lover. I love you, Cú. I always will.”

“That is all well and good,” Cú said in a hollow voice. “But it won’t change my circumstances.”

“No, it won’t.” An idea crept into Diarmuid’s head and he smiled. Saying farewell to his green board shorts, he materialized his armor once again, almost immediately regretting it as the heat saturated every surface of his body. “But I’ll prove myself. Until you feel better, I’m going to sit here with you. Hell, I’ll compose poetry of your beauty.”

Cú snorted, a genuine sound of amusement, much to Diarmuid’s delight. “First, I am not beautiful. Second, I thought you were helping me, not torturing me.”

“I can do both.” He plopped next to Cú on the bed, partly to be next to him, partly to get in range of the oscillating fan. “What do you say?”

For a long while, he said nothing. Then, with a small smile, he clasped Diarmuid’s hand. “I suppose I'll let you stay here. But maybe”—he plucked up the ratty black board shorts—”we should change our outfits to better acclimate to the current temperature.”

Diarmuid laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

It turned out that Cú’s tail did destroy the board shorts almost immediately. For a while, Diarmuid attempted to bear the heat in his armor before Cú sighed and dematerialized his outfit, the unspoken sign that Diarmuid could do the same.

Now they just lay together, sprawled out on the bed, limbs intertwined. There was something so intimate in their positions: Diarmuid rested on top of Cú, just enjoying his presence and their bodies, but not in the throes of passion, no, just the familiar comfort of skin against skin, nothing material between them. It was truly gratifying seeing Cú adjust to his natural form, and Diarmuid made a mental note that they should do this more often.

“Still feeling good?” he asked Cú.

He nodded. “Yes.” Then stretched, a luxurious motion that made Diarmuid’s heart swoop—how could he have ever have thought he was revolting? “This is nice.” He cupped Diarmuid’s face. “Especially with you.”

Diarmuid nuzzled the hand right as the oscillating fan passed over them. He shivered at the cool air, then—he had to stifle a laugh at the realization.

“Hey, Cú,” he said.

“Hmm?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this”—he inched closer—“but I think I’m a little chilly.”

He didn’t get a verbal response, but he didn’t need one. Not when Cú wrapping him in a hug said everything he could want and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Here's a pic of [Diarmuid and Cú cuddling](https://ibb.co/DL7wkgD) from the end of the story, and a pic of [Diarmuid in his swimsuit](https://ibb.co/pnV2xQb). Also, Kuma did a fabulous pic of [Diarmuid wearing Tamamo's swimsuit](https://ibb.co/vxzrCWM). For next round, probably going to do some smut.
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	23. Instinct (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out Cú's a secret furry and Diarmuid gets railed to within an inch of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually kidding about the furry thing; I just had a pic of Sexy Bunny Diarmuid and wanted to use it. Anyway, I know Easter was like a week ago, but oh well. This whole drabble is a mess regardless. Please see the end notes for a couple of pictures done by the spectacular viceturtle aka BitterPatt.
> 
> EDIT: The amazing Kuma is back and created this cute meme [pic](https://ibb.co/3k3Y1rv). Check it out!
> 
> Enjoy!

It wasn’t difficult to tell what traits of his came from Medb.

From what Cú knew of his Lancer counterpart, he was a fierce hero, one who delighted in the thrill of battle. Cheerful, mischievous, and good-natured—all qualities he lacked.

His bloodlust remained. Perhaps preserved by Medb as her ideal conqueror and warrior. It was a duty, yes, but one that needed to be carried out, and there was a certain anticipation before any fight. Usually disappointment followed, for few enemies could even elevate his heart rate, but a predatory instinct took over when steel clashed and blood spilled. Almost carnal in nature, an association most likely intentional. How often had Medb urged him to lose all inhibition, to crush his enemy underfoot, his body singing from the rush, from the conquest. Her ultimate fantasy, surprisingly shared across space and time.

That tantalizing taboo: the notion of helplessness, of being ravished, taken. He’d seen that same desire in others, from when Master bashfully hid her bodice-ripper novel, her cheeks tinged and head bowed, mumbling out “I just think it’s neat.” From mythology, of Kore and Hades, from the popular folktales of virgin maidens swept away by dashing warriors.

He was strong and others were weak. He understood this simple truth and all its implications. Victory wasn’t sought, it was expected, and he laid waste to any opposition, who existed only to be subjugated, receptive to his every whim and fancy. It was what Medb had intended.

Of course, she hadn’t been omniscient. She never could have guessed her beloved, so stoic and aloof, could turn into such a mess at something so small. Currently, heat settled in his face and his groin stirred from the ridiculous, yet alluring sight in front of him.

“Would you care for some eggs, good sir?” teased Diarmuid, holding aloft the prizes they’d found earlier in the day during Chaldea’s Easter egg hunt. Now those same prizes rested on a plate, absurdly bright in comparison to the simple black one-piece suit, complete with rabbit ears and fluffy tail, of their owner. He placed the plate on the nearby table, then struck a pose, hands on his hips, all smiles and sparkling eyes. “_Hoppy_ Easter, Cú!”

Cú leaned back in his chair. “We don’t even celebrate this holiday.”

He tried to keep his voice steady—anything not to betray how much his heart was pounding. The game was obvious: Diarmuid often begged to see his full potential, the one which he’d denied even Medb. Oh, how she had pouted for him to be animalistic; Diarmuid wished for the same, for that strange universal fantasy... but he didn’t grasp the full magnitude of that wish.

“But it’s sexy, isn’t it?” Diarmuid said, sidling closer, answering both the spoken question and Cú’s secret thoughts. “Don’t you like it? I stole the idea from Ruler Artoria.”

Ah, now he remembered. Hers had been a different color—he preferred the more subtle tones of Diarmuid’s outfit to that garish monstrosity. That one only seemed to emphasize her bust, while his flattered his arms and legs, highlighting his toned upper arms and the curve of his collarbone and the taut surface of his abdomen and the strength of his thighs—Cú bit his lip as his cock twitched. This was _a lot _to take in.

As if sensing weakness, Diarmuid plopped himself in Cú’s lap, flashing that brilliantly radiant smile he was so famous for. “Isn’t this nice? I can be your personal little bunny tonight.”

Cú sucked in a breath. “Perhaps, but… isn’t this demeaning for you?”

Diarmuid’s smile only brightened. “Why? I’m having fun”—he rubbed Cú’s crotch—”you’re having fun.” His position changed so that he was now straddling Cú. “Everyone’s having fun.”

Yes, there was truth to his words. Cú would have been lying if he claimed he wasn’t liking this. But at the same time, the outfit plus Diarmuid’s strange combination of seduction and submission targeted that primal part within him, that part he was afraid to unleash. It felt like treading on a frozen lake, never quite sure what step might be the one to send him plunging into the abyss, never to return.

Diarmuid, either oblivious or (more likely) indifferent to Cú’s mental dilemma, began to gyrate, grinding his hips against Cú’s. The sensation, the friction… Cú closed his eyes. There was only a thread of self-control left. All he wanted was to taste and touch, to quench his burning urge, to pin Diarmuid down and perform every sin under the sun until he was thoroughly _ruined. _

Hot breath in his ear sent a shiver down his spine. “Come on,” Diarmuid cooed. “You’re holding back, I can tell… just relax and enjoy yourself.”

The issue wasn’t the enjoyment, the issue was the relaxing. Did Diarmuid not realize he was flirting with danger? That once he fell into the fire he couldn’t get back out?

His breathing now ragged, Cú rested his hands on Diarmuid’s waist, almost cradling him. He wanted to push him off, compose himself, then properly make love without tearing him in two. But that damn smirk was driving him crazy. Diarmuid kissed him, quite unexpectedly, nipping at his lower lip, tongue just barely flicking into his mouth, then pulling out, slowly, before capturing him again, his lips so soft and ripe like candied melon, his hands tugging at Cú’s suit and hair and stroking—

_Stop. _The edge was approaching, that awful drop—and Diarmuid was just egging him on, whispering such horribly wonderful things in his ear: “_You want this too, you know it, __C__ú._” There was another kiss, this time slow and sultry, then an almost inaudible “_please._”

He lost it. The growl reverberated through his throat, and he stood with Diarmuid held in place against him. His claws made quick work of the ears and outfit, then his own armor dematerialized just as rapidly.

“You asked for this,” he said, voice low and more restrained than he actually felt. There was nothing but a delighted gasp as he assaulted the other man’s lips, drinking him in, stealing every breath and sigh. Before they’d even separated, he collapsed onto the bed, him on top, crushing Diarmuid beneath him as he continued to bruise his mouth.

Nibbling and licking down his neck, he straddled his waist, only pausing to appreciate the flushed cheeks and wanton expression. Diarmuid was a vision, his eyes like liquid amber, yearning, _needing_, lips swollen and hair tousled like a ruffled raven. As eager as ever, he slid his hands down Cú’s stomach, then cupped him, one hand creeping toward his backside while the other began to stroke his length, igniting that burning in his core.

But enough foreplay. In one fell swoop, Cú gripped Diarmuid by his thighs and dangled him upside down, now able to bury his face between them. With one final glance to check that Diarmuid was in the proper place for 69, he grinned, then took his cock into his mouth. His tongue bathed the glans, flicking at the slit, and he relished as the man tensed and squirmed in his grasp. He eased up, just barely, for Diarmuid to begin his own ministrations down below.

_Oh fuck. _His thighs flexed inadvertently, and he readjusted his grip, keeping one hand around Diarmuid’s leg and wrapping another around his torso. The weight wasn’t enough to tire him—he could hold much heavier for days—but the previous angle had been a tad precarious. He continued where he left off, his own toes curling as Diarmuid’s tongue went to work. Minding his teeth, he opened his mouth wider, trying to take as much as he could, all while that blissful warmth of Diarmuid doing the same to him sent pleasure radiating up his spine. If Cú had any complaints, it would only be that he couldn’t watch Diarmuid’s face as he sucked and licked and kissed his length—well that, and his hands’ occupation. His thumb absentmindedly stroked the areas he held, but he couldn’t caress or fondle Diarmuid’s cock, unlike the man himself, who put both his mouth and hands to good use.

Gods, he was getting close. Same for his upside-down prisoner, whose stomach went taut as his balls clenched. Then— Cú did his best to swallow as Diarmuid let out a muffled cry. His own release came, but Diarmuid didn’t do as well in catching with his mouth, and he frowned as warmth splattered down his thighs.

He dropped him a little unceremoniously, taking in the mess Diarmuid had created. White speckled his thighs and Diarmuid’s face and some of his stomach (_how did that happen?_), but thankfully it looked like the bed had been spared. Cú ruined this immediately by using a sheet to wipe it off, then pounced on Diarmuid once again.

His eyes were slightly dazed, and they widened in surprise as Cú settled on top of him.

“You thought we were done?” Cú said to answer the unspoken question. “Like I said earlier—you asked for this.”

Already hard (one of the leftover perks from Medb’s meddling), he ground his hips against Diarmuid’s, his mouth licking and kissing the man’s pecs. When his tongue passed over a nipple, Diarmuid sighed happily, running his fingers through Cú’s hair.

“Don’t bother,” he growled, and Diarmuid squeaked in alarm. “Work on getting yourself ready instead.”

The fingers left Cú’s hair for a different destination—as ordered—but Cú didn’t let up kissing Diarmuid’s stomach and chest, worshiping every inch of his body, even as that primal inferno in his core burned and throbbed, pulsing just underneath his skin. Diarmuid’s body tensed and relaxed as he stretched and scissored himself, and Cú grunted in approval, teasing the tip of the man’s cock with his tongue before trailing kisses down his thighs.

With Diarmuid nearly whimpering in pleasure, the burning grew too strong; Cú couldn’t wait for anything else. Satisfied that he wouldn’t hurt him too much, he figured, fuck it. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, and he shoved himself in with one quick thrust.

Fortunately, Diarmuid didn’t complain, though he gripped the sheets on either side of him with steadily whitening knuckles. He panted, his eyes watering, but the stupid smile on his face suggested he was loving it just as much as Cú. On his end, he rolled his hips, sitting upright and pulling Diarmuid closer, moving with slow, languid strokes. When Diarmuid wrapped his legs around his waist, he grabbed his ass, angling him to get a deeper thrust.

“Fuck, Cú!”

“That’s the point,” he panted, driving more forcefully than before, only to grin as Diarmuid’s face flushed further, sweat rolling down his brow. As his momentum built, he shifted again, leaning over Diarmuid and pushing his legs back until the man was practically bent in half. The bed creaked, and Cú’s pace grew frantic, pounding harder and harder, almost oblivious to Diarmuid holding onto him for dear life. Every thrust must have hit that perfect sweet spot because Diarmuid was nearly sobbing his name, screaming how he was going to come, and Cú was nearly there too—just the sensation of Diarmuid’s nails in his shoulders and how exquisitely tight he was and that ridiculous scent of evergreen that never seemed to wear off pushed him to the limit.

When Diarmuid shuddered from his own climax, he nearly whited out, panting as everything built to a crescendo, then crashed down. Somehow he didn’t collapse, and he gazed down at Diarmuid with what he hoped was a concerned expression as the high faded.

“Are you okay?”

The mess that was Diarmuid nodded, breathless and wild-eyed. “Y-yeah.”

Cú shook his head. “I hope you learned your lesson.”

To his surprise, Diarmuid started to laugh, that stupid grin from earlier back on his face. “Fuck no, are you kidding?” He sat up. “I hope this happens more often.”

That wasn’t what Cú was expecting. But… a devious smile formed. “So you’re not overwhelmed?”

“Nope. Not one bit—” He yelped as Cú flipped him over, licking a streak up his neck, then biting just below his ear.

“Good,” Cú hissed, “because we’re not done yet. Not even close.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that sure was a story I guess. Thanks for reading. Here's the Sexy Bunny Diarmuid [pic](https://ibb.co/8zxh6xy) AND for the first time ever, here is an [NSFW pic](https://ibb.co/VqsWSL1) (again, NSFW! Don't click unless you mean it!)
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	24. Too Scary (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Osakabehime turns Diarmuid into a gamer, who finds he has a knack for creepy games. Cú is not as enthused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, here's a quick one for ya. I rated it G, but there are a couple of instances of bad language. Anyway, scared Cú is too cute. See the end notes for a pic from the fantastic viceturtle aka BitterPatt.
> 
> Story Notes: The scary games they're playing do not exist, but are inspired from things like P.T. and Suite 776. Also, bonus points to anyone who guesses what REAL game they're playing at the end. ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

Down a corridor. Through the door. Diarmuid tensed. Right now, all he could hear was the steady ‘_drip, drip_’ of water, but in another second… that low growl. It was _close. _

He sped through another room. _Keys. _He had two, but he needed the third. Where was it? Another bend, barely illuminated, just enough to see the bloody stains, broken glass, and obscene graffiti. He raced down a flight of steps, scanning around until… the key! It was right there, but so was—

“Aw no!”

Osakabehime glanced up from her DS. “Did you die?”

Staring glumly at the “_GAME OVER_” screen, Diarmuid nodded. “Yes... but I progressed much further this time. Found the third key and everything.”

“Only the third key?” Osakabehime snorted. “Git gud, noob. That’s like barely passing the first part of the game.”

He sighed. While Osakabehime returned her attention to her own game, he leaned back, trying to go over where he went wrong and the previous steps he’d taken to get to that point. He was coming up blank—it was just bad luck that he’d ran into the monster. And if the game relied on luck… he sighed again.

“Something the matter?”

Osakabehime still hadn’t looked up, her fingers flying, brow furrowed. Although Diarmuid wanted to respond, he couldn’t tear his eyes away, enthralled by the flashing lights illuminating her face and the various posters behind her. She had the most unusual room for a servant: anime posters, body pillows, manga books, and stacks of all sorts of games. It seemed even more unusual that she hardly ever left the place. But then again, that wasn’t the only fascinating thing about her.

Ever since she’d been summoned, she’d intrigued everyone with her strange slang and quirky hobbies. One of which had roused Diarmuid’s interest: video games. Unlike anything he’d ever experienced, they sucked him in right away, and he found he had a penchant for one genre in particular—horror.

He liked the atmosphere, the puzzles, the creepy music, the shadowy imagery… all of it combined to give him a spine-chilling experience. Well, except for when he couldn’t progress. Like in this instance.

Shaking his head, he resumed his earlier task. He shut off the console and placed the game disc back in its case, already scouring for another contender to give him goosebumps. He’d just booted up a game—whose cover consisted of a hallway with a figure silhouetted at the end—when Cú burst through the door.

“There you are.” He strode over to Diarmuid’s side. “What are you doing in Osakabehime’s room?”

“Hi, Cú,” she responded dryly. “Nice of you to notice me here.”

He ignored her. “What is this?" He peered at the screen. “Why are you pretending to walk down a hallway?”

“It’s a horror game.”

“Horror?”

Diarmuid nodded. “Yes. The point of the game is for the player to maintain composure in the face of unsettling elements.”

Cú rolled his eyes. “Missions are much better for that sort of thrill.”

“I know, but I can’t go on every mission.” He gestured at the screen. “This is a good substitute. Would you like to try?”

Frowning, Cú glanced back and forth from Diarmuid’s face to the screen. “I suppose.” He plopped on the floor, rattling the room from his weight, and Diarmuid handed the controller over. After he explained the instructions, Cú still frowned. “So I just have to walk down the hallway?”

“You’re exploring. And solving puzzles.” He sat back as the game started.

With the controller sitting awkwardly in his hands, Cú scanned the screen as the first person POV walked down the shadowy hallway, occasionally pausing at various dressers and tables. “This cabinet is locked.”

“You’ll probably need a key.”

“Why can’t I just wrench it open?”

“The game won’t let you.”

Cú huffed. “I should definitely be able to rip that thing clean off its hinges.”

Diarmuid’s chuckle was inadvertent, and he ran a hand over Cú’s bicep in appreciation. “Well, of course you could, but maybe your character can’t.”

Apparently, this must have confused Cú, because he turned to Diarmuid with a frown. “What? I thought I was me?”

“No, you’re pretending to be another person. Sometimes part of the fun of these games is to find out more about the character you’re playing.”

There was another huff. “And my character just _had _to be weak. Perfect.”

In the game, the long corridor just kept going. Part of it was more well-lit than other areas, such as the balcony of a second floor overlooking a foyer, which Cú scanned before coming across a phone. No dial tone. On various surfaces, there were a few creepy notes, and occasionally a door would creak open. The first time something like that happened, Cú jumped, then scowled immediately afterward.

“Am I facing an invisible adversary?”

Diarmuid glanced at the game case again. “I think there’s supposed to be a ghost in this house.”

Cú snorted. The first puzzle arrived, and he had to memorize some colors and then enter it in a safe. He found a key and unlocked a nearby door. “Finally,” he sighed. He finished searching the room, which led into another hallway, but as he turned a corner, a figure streaked past.

He froze.

For Diarmuid, it was the strangest sight. Cú’s eyes actually went wide and his breath hitched. He clutched the controller, tight, his POV character just as motionless as he was. Eventually he whispered, “Diarmuid, if I am not me… does that mean I cannot summon Gáe Bolg?”

“No, you cannot.” Yet again, Diarmuid glanced at the game case. “I don’t think you have any weapons. There’s usually no way to fight back in these games.”

The sheer horror on Cú’s face would have been awful in any other situation, but in this instance Diarmuid had to stifle his laughter. “It will be okay,” he said, rubbing Cú’s tense shoulder. When the man scowled, he just scooted closer. “I’m right here.”

“Thanks,” Cú muttered, glaring at the screen as he resumed his progress, although with a little more trepidation. He solved another puzzle, and a giggle sounded from another room. Wetting his lips, he scanned the area for any adversary, then continued on his way.

Down another corridor, he found a new note. He turned a corner when the same figure from earlier peeked around, then disappeared just as quickly.

Cú nearly threw the controller.

“Don’t break my stuff,” Osakabehime cried, and Diarmuid had to bite his tongue not to laugh. Cú sucked in a breath, then marched down the remainder of the corridor.

There were more puzzles, and the music shifted to strange cries and a distant drumming. Diarmuid began to stroke Cú’s arm as the man kept muttering various intonations of “_fuck_” under his breath.

“You’re doing great.” Diarmuid kissed his shoulder. “Look how far you’ve gotten.”

“Fuck,” Cú hissed. His eyes never left the screen.

He’d just finished another puzzle when the figure finally made its full appearance. It grabbed him from behind, howling in his face, and Cú let out a garbled yelp. His chest heaved as the screen went black.

“I hate this,” he snapped. “What is the fun in being a helpless worm?”

“People like getting scared,” Diarmuid answered.

Another huff. “I am not scared.” Cú crossed his arms. “This game is just stupid.”

“I can play if you want—oh wait.” Diarmuid pointed at the screen. “You’re not dead, look your character is getting back up.”

The appalled resignation on Cú’s face was photo-worthy. “I… have to keep going?”

“Not if you don’t wa—”

“I’m not scared!” he snapped again, clutching the controller. He glued his eyes to the screen. “I can finish this stupid game with or without a weapon.”

After another half hour, it became very apparent he couldn’t. The game had ramped up its creepiness exponentially, and even with Diarmuid stroking his arm and snuggling against him, Cú had devolved into occasional whimpers and wide eyes. Every time the figure appeared, even briefly, he clutched the controller so tightly Diarmuid feared it might break.

Again, the figure grabbed him and Cú actually snarled. At the sound, Osakabehime tossed her DS to the side. “You’re obviously terrified.” She folded her arms. “Stop playing this stupid game. I’ll give you guys better ones.”

To Diarmuid’s surprise, Cú didn’t argue. He just meekly dropped his controller and motioned for the new game.

* * *

Back in his quarters, Cú had noticeably relaxed. Now both him and Diarmuid were immersed in handheld consoles, and their current game was a far different beast than the one from earlier.

“Oh!” Diarmuid gasped happily. “I got an oarfish!”

He turned to see Cú glaring at his Switch. Before he could even ask, Cú growled, “Fricken’ sea bass again!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Here's a cute lil pic of [Diarmuid and Cú playing vidya games](https://ibb.co/KV1b6qg). Stay tuned next round for some good old angst. 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	25. Emptiness (Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had never realized a broken heart was so literal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, here is some heavy ANGST! This is for you, BitterPatt, I hope it thoroughly wrecks you in the best possible way. 
> 
> Fair warning, there are some intense elements in this, and Cú gets pretty nasty at one point. I finally got to have him and Medb interact, and it was weirdly cathartic getting to acknowledge her side of the story and fleshing her out a bit, add a bit of her own myth. I don't know, she's not a good person, but it's fun to give her a bit of depth. See the end notes for some of the mythology references.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (TW: violence against women, mentions of suicide)

At first, he wasn't that concerned when Diarmuid didn't come back.

Everyone knew about the complications. Chaldea had lost the party’s signal—an unfortunately common occurrence—and somehow Master had gotten separated from all her servants, aside from Diarmuid. Cú overheard the snippets as the party finally arrived, but his primary concern at the time was Master's condition: critical. He stood back, watching quietly as Dr. Roman and Da Vinci hurried her away to the medical bay, not wanting to interfere in any life-saving measures. Better to wait—not long, but just long enough for the current status check (they stabilized her)—then head back to rayshift for Diarmuid's return. 

There, everyone was buzzing: "_Did you hear what happened?"_

"_Yes, Diarmuid protected Master to his dying breath. He's the only reason she's still here_."

Despite the swell of pride, Cú couldn't help but feel irritated when Diarmuid didn’t rush toward him. He was always eager to greet Cú—why was this time different?

The answer soon became clear: Diarmuid hadn't come back yet. Not an entirely unforeseen complication—occasionally it could take a whole day for a servant to rematerialize when the system grew buggy—so he resigned himself to more tedious waiting.

The seconds ticked by. Turned into minutes. Then hours. The evening bell rang, but Cú didn't move. He just kept waiting, for that wonderful moment when Diarmuid would reappear, probably sheepish from being defeated. Most servants had fallen at one time or another, but Diarmuid always took it particularly hard, like a blemish on his entire character, that he had not lasted long enough, not been good enough. Cú had never managed to break him of the habit.

Boredom gnawed at Cú, but his feet didn't budge. His eyes never left the rayshift station, though no activity occurred. More seconds. More minutes. More hours.

When he hit his limit, he strode off to find Dr. Roman. "Is the system still offline?" he asked.

The man nodded. "We've hit a few snags, but things should be in working order shortly." He flashed an apologetic, albeit annoyed, smile. "Thank you for your patience."

Cú didn’t feel patient. But he didn’t let that interfere as he stood outside rayshift. Never leaving. Only watching.

By the third day, a faint uneasiness had seized him. This was… uncharacteristically long. Even during times when the software had malfunctioned. Again, he asked for an estimate.

“The system is up,” Dr. Roman explained. “He should be back any moment.”

But he wasn’t. Another two days passed, and this time when Cú sought Dr. Roman out, the man appeared nervous.

"There’s been unforeseen complications—I’m not sure what the problem is.” He laughed, a stilted sound born from nerves rather than amusement. Cú loomed over him, and he—perhaps unconsciously—took a step back. “I was planning on rebooting the system. Hopefully that should clear the problem up.”

Still no Diarmuid. Again, Dr. Roman reassured him just a bit more time was needed. Master was almost out of medical bay, she could assist if things still weren’t going according to plan.

Three more days passed. Three days with no Diarmuid, and Cú’s unease had gradually morphed into panic. He couldn’t talk to Dr. Roman—the man seemed to be avoiding him—and the rayshift station never buzzed or sparked with any activity.

At the week and a half mark, he snapped. He barreled into headquarters, not even bothering to welcome a still weak Ritsuka back from the medical bay, his only interest that of the partially-cowering Dr. Roman.

“Why has he not appeared?” he snarled, but as his eyes flicked to the terminal screen, the answer was apparent.

There was no file for Diarmuid. Somehow whatever connection between rayshift and Master and him had been severed. To the servers, it was like he had never existed at all, and the crushing truth hit Cú like a tidal wave.

Diarmuid was not coming back. Ever.

* * *

He didn’t remember leaving the terminal. He didn’t remember walking back to his quarters. He didn’t remember any of it, but somehow later he was sitting on his bed. It must have been later, because the clock display was different than from what he _could _remember, but it didn’t feel like any time had passed.

At one point, in that nebulous period of later, someone invited him to a memorial service, but he didn’t go. He didn’t want the reminder, as if every waking moment wasn’t a reminder. As if every waking moment wasn’t hell, wasn’t nothing but grief.

It was an odd emotion. It started out as numb emptiness, one that spread throughout his entire body, until his arms and legs were no more, until he was nothing but a slug. Then it filled him, like sludge, something that started in the back of his throat, choking him, spreading to his chest, burning, searing like fire, until he could barely breathe. He had never realized a broken heart was so literal.

He must have experienced it before, in the times prior to America. But those memories—of Laeg and Emer and Ferdiad and Connla—were like remembering a dream, as if viewed through a filter. That grief was secondhand, borrowed from another Cú Chulainn, and he had no right to it.

Instead, he reveled in his own, stationary in his room, unmoving from the sludge that filled him. So heavy, the heaviest thing he had ever felt. The clock on the wall kept changing, but he remained lost, stranded in limbo, the world around him merely some projection, some illusion.

When he did wander, it wasn’t intentional. Sometimes he’d go back to rayshift and wait. Some vain hope that if he just stayed long enough, it wouldn’t be real. The horrible ache in his chest would be gone because there would be Diarmuid, radiant and bright as ever, with arms open for Cú. He’d laugh and say, “_I’m sorry for worrying you_” and Cú would scoff.

“_I wasn’t worried,_” he’d lie, because he never could admit all that he felt around Diarmuid, how he never felt any of it before, those alien emotions. Now all it amounted to was regret. Why hadn’t he expressed his true thoughts? Why hadn’t he done everything to show how much he cared?

He knew why. It was because if he’d acknowledged it then it would disappear. Gone forever, for why would Diarmuid ever pick him? Only once had he ever voiced this confusion. It was during that time when everything was so uncertain, when Cú was torn between his own happiness—how surreal, him, _happy_—and his selfish yearning for something beautiful. He wasn’t meant for something—_someone—_so wonderful, a light to his shadow, radiance to his dull luster, but Diarmuid hadn’t thought the same.

“_How could I not be drawn to you_?” he’d said.

“_Because what would entice you about a broken partner?”_

Diarmuid had laughed. “_If you’re broken, then I’m demolished.” _He’d cupped Cú’s face. “_I saw a warrior whose destiny was taken, who chose to still be the strongest one around, to prevail even with an unwanted fate. How could I not be enticed?”_

It still hadn’t convinced Cú. “_You jest. You were noble even in your disgrace. I don’t qualify—I never had grace to begin with.”_

That sad smile Diarmuid sometimes wore had appeared, and he’d held Cú, in that way that made him feel precious and fragile and delicate, in that way that made him feel like something other than a mistake. “_You say you’re nothing but a monster,_” Diarmuid had whispered. “_But our definitions of monster are quite different._” A kiss, so soft and loving, far more loving than Cú deserved. “_If fate, as cruel as she may be, can bring you into my arms, then what other possibilities does she have planned? For you are not static, you are like the sea from which your armors hails, and every day I am awed to be witness to the whole of you.”_

What whole? Cú couldn’t breathe, leaning against the wall by the rayshift station. There was no whole of him, nothing but pieces left behind, because only someone like Diarmuid could have ever kept him together. Only someone like Diarmuid would fail to see his own brilliance, would devote himself to a lost cause like Cú, believing they were one and the same, refusing to see that he’d never needed atonement for the sins his pride wouldn’t let him name. Fate, he’d blamed again and again, but Cú knew he really blamed himself, his penitence unending, when all he ever really needed was closure.

Funny, that’s what Diarmuid had always claimed Cú needed, too. He stared at the empty rayshift station. What fools they both had been.

* * *

Before long, the pithy sympathy began.

Servant after servant would express their condolences to him. There were flowers in his room, gifts from persons he had never spoken to, but he dumped them all. He didn’t want their shallow attempts to ease their consciousness. Not when that awful emptiness consumed him.

Some attempts were less forced than others. Cú was surprised when Fionn, actually somber for once, showed up at his door.

“I know we don’t know each other,” he said, his eyes hollow and lifeless. “But my room is always open if you need somewhere to escape. I’m not usually in there, so you should have privacy.”

Others were not so genuine. His class variants were awkward during their shows, perhaps made mandatory by Master or Dr. Roman, and Cú had shrugged them off. Nothing would have been better in his opinion.

So he hid. Sometimes in his room, and sometimes he built up the courage to sit in Diarmuid’s. He cleared out the mourning gifts until the room looked like nothing had ever changed, the bed still made, fresh flowers still in a vase, like Diarmuid would come back at any moment.

He’d sleep there too. Wake up and pretend it was a dream. It was easier surrounded by Diarmuid’s scent. But even that began to fade.

Which was probably why she showed up one day. Like always, he’d been sitting on Diarmuid’s bed when the door opened and a sniffling Artoria hurried in. She froze.

“I…” She bowed her head. “I was not aware you were here. I will leave if…” Her lip quivered, but she did not cry. “I will leave if that is your wish.”

He deliberated. There was a part of him that wanted her gone, because why should he share in his grief, why should anyone else get to mourn Diarmuid? Not when the emptiness sometimes erupted into an awful sensation of too much—perhaps worse than the absence, Cú wasn’t sure—when every emotion fought and clashed and he wanted to scream. But as the numbness settled over him, he didn’t shoo her way. He let her stay.

So she sat next to him and wept, and through her tears she choked out that this was the second time she’d lost him, that it must have been worse for Cú, but it was awful, as awful as her grief for Lancelot and the rest of the Round Table.

He listened. He did not interfere, even though his heart ached at the selfish realization that she had loved Diarmuid as well.

* * *

Something had to give. It was inevitable. The emptiness never went away, but it ebbed and flowed, into that awful too much, then back into that gaping hole. Like vertigo, spinning out of control, into rage and fear and sickness, into the destruction of his room and his body—he’d tear at his tail and carapace and spikes—he’d drown in his own blood if it were possible. But he couldn’t.

So he needed to find the one person who could.

Though he had never traversed the path, somehow the turns and hallways felt familiar as he made his way to his creator’s—and hopefully killer’s—quarters. He knocked, waiting, every muscle tense, ready for the moment when he would explode.

The door opened, revealing pink hair and brown eyes, which widened—from an unknown emotion—before the figure inside tried to shut him out. Too slow. He caught the door and shoved it open.

Medb stumbled back. “What… what are you—”

He didn’t let her finish before he seized her by her throat, then hurled her into a nearby cabinet. Glass shattered and wood splintered as she slumped to the floor in a bloody mess. He waited for retaliation—one second, two—but none came. She sat up, dazed, staring up at him with that strange emotion he couldn’t name.

He hated it.

In just a few strides, he crossed the room and snatched her up by those rose-pink strands. She was screaming something, but he couldn’t hear her, not over the pounding of his own heart. Again, he threw her—this time into a wall—before he waited, for her to do something, _anything. _

Nothing. She panted, bruises blossoming across her face and shoulders, untangling herself from her own limbs. Blood covered half her face, her hair a violent bird’s nest.

“Fight back!” he growled. He picked her up again, glaring daggers. “Fucking hit me, you bitch!”

Finally, there was a spark, an ugly flash in those brown eyes. She stiffened. “Don’t call me that.” She kicked him, hard—hard enough for him to stumble back out of secret relief. “Don’t _ever _call me that. You have no right.”

No right? For a second, his initial motivation disappeared, replaced by indignation. “I can call you whatever I want.” He towered over her, watching as she clenched her fists. “Don’t act like after everything you’ve done you're above the term.”

“I’m not!” she snapped. “I’ve never pretended I wasn’t, not for a second. But you!” She pointed a finger, angry accusation turning her features feral—with the blood adorning her face, she was the warrior queen from legend, no longer her usual silly and flirtatious self. “You haven’t changed from the boy I saw in Ulster. No matter what, you pretended everything was going according to plan, even when it wasn’t. You won’t own up to anything! Oh, you’ll complain, but you won’t make any effort, you’ll take no initiative. You'd rather stick your head in the sand than admit to your own pride.” She laughed harshly. “Look at you! You’re too much of a coward to even kill yourse—”

He struck her, knocking her off her feet. “Shut up,” he hissed. “Shut up, shut up. I am not yours anymore; I refuse to listen to your vile words.”

Those pink strands, darkened from blood, hid her face. She lay half-sprawled, shaking, but after another moment Cú realized it was from laughter. “Oh my darling,” she cooed, his skin crawling from the faux sincerity of it, “do you want to know why I did the things I did to you?”

Her hair parted, and she stared at him, fury glistening in her eyes. “It wasn’t because you were irresistible. Hell, I’d never much thought of you in that way.” She rose to her feet, wiping a trickle of blood from her mouth. “You’ve always been so absorbed in your own story that you’ve never considered mine.” She sneered. “And why would the powerful Cú Chulainn ever care about Medb, the Harlot Queen, the one who left his uncle, Conchobar?

“No, you never once confronted him after he raped me. You never once showed me mercy when you murdered my pets and humiliated me. You vilified me for choosing war when you killed without a second thought. For seeking the pleasure of men. How many women did you use for your own selfish gain? How many did you toss aside once you lost interest in the comfort of their thighs?”

She spat at his feet. “Never once did you hold the men in your life accountable as you did for me. And then I had the Grail and a chance to be powerful, and I chose you, a twisted version of you that would suffer as I had suffered. You, the one who looked upon me with contempt when I begged for my life, who destroyed my one chance to prove myself as equal to a king, would now be nothing more than a beast made to serve me. How fitting! But you never thought of it that way. You just dug in your heels, took to your role, and pretended to be satisfied like the coward you are!” Again, she pointed, trembling from rage. “I didn’t turn you into a monster, Cú. You did that yourself!”

A roar escaped from his mouth, and he raised his hand. There was a fleeting second where there was no doubt, no hesitation—he’d end her now, even as she lifted her chin defiantly, daring him. He’d fulfill the savage impulse within him.

But he didn’t. His arm went slack in the face of those hateful eyes. Purple crept around her mouth and the curve of her cheek, his mark, and the rage fizzled out like a sputtering flame.

Medb was not his enemy. Medb was not the problem.

He left her, because her killing him or him killing her still wouldn’t bring Diarmuid back, still wouldn’t ease that horrible emptiness. With his last moment of lucidity, he scrawled a quick note to Master: “_Summon me if you require assistance.”_

Then he threw open the outer doors into the unforgiving landscape Chaldea called home.

He braved the merciless wind, ripping at his hair and his clothes, lashing him until he was raw. The cold seized him in its jaws, its cruel fingers jabbing at every exposed area of skin. His lips went numb and his toes turned to lead. 

But he marched on. His eyes watered from the endless white and the wind. When his cheeks grew stiff, he wiped away solidified water—glittering diamonds he realized were his tears—but they wouldn’t stop coming. Even after he’d reached an icy cliff and plunged into the frigid blackness of the sea, they poured forth, an infinite supply born from the nothing in his chest.

For a second he sank, the cold of the water burning him and his lungs, replacing that awful emptiness momentarily. But he couldn’t be filled. He surfaced, choking, then kicked off, toward the horizon where an unnaturally bright sun hung in the sky. Toward another land.

* * *

Miles and months went by. The water grew warmer and his connection with Master grew fainter. Occasionally, he caught fish to supplement his diminished mana stores, his muscles constantly aching from the strain.

But he needed to continue. He passed islands and continents and still he swam on. Until the water once again grew colder, until a familiar land filled his vision, where he escaped the spray of the waves and clambered up the rocky face of a cliff.

There were civilians around. They gasped and pointed at him—horrified from his strange appearance—but he didn’t care. How many millennia had passed since he had set foot in the kingdom of Eire? It had a different name now, just as different as the land, but his person of interest was eternal. He would still be around.

He wandered along gravel roads, through shrubs, and into the woods. Wandered until he found the familiar ring of mushrooms, then stood just outside, and proclaimed, “Come forth, Aengus, son of the Dagda.”

Not even a second passed before a youthful man with red and gold hair appeared. No older than twenty-five, at least to an outside observer. Cú knew he’d lived far longer.

“Take me to Brú na Bóinne,” he commanded. “I wish to speak with your foster son.”

* * *

Underneath the earth, the air cool and slightly wet, they traversed until they came upon a stone room. Light filtered from an opening above onto a prone form, lying on his back, the man’s hands clasped together on his stomach. Cú’s heart ached at the sight.

To his side, Aengus rested a hand on his shoulder. He nodded at Cú, then strode forward, crouching by the man’s head. “Hello,” he whispered, then blew on his face. “There’s someone here for you.”

Miraculously, wonderfully, those eyelids fluttered, and there they were, the amber irises Cú had longed to see for so long. There was a dreamy quality in them, almost unfocused, and Diarmuid sat up with a faraway smile on his face.

As Aengus backed out to give them privacy, Cú approached almost reverently. He crouched by Diarmuid’s side just as Aengus had done not a moment before.

“Hello, Cú.”

“Hello,” he whispered back. Somehow his voice didn’t crack.

“You’re a long way from Chaldea,” Diarmuid said in that strange airy tone. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. How did you cross the ocean?”

“I swam,” he replied, as if it was some grand romantic gesture in one of those pop songs Master liked to listen to and not the reality, not the honest to god truth that he couldn’t stand another minute without him. “I’ve missed you so much.” And this time his voice did crack.

“I missed you too,” Diarmuid said, and Cú embraced him, even though he wasn’t warm and alive, just a doll that could speak in Diarmuid’s voice. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Cú choked out. The tears came, inadvertent, trickling down his face like candle wax. “I came here because I never said what I should have. And I’m sorry for that, but Diarmuid—”

He cocked his head. 

Shuddering, Cú wiped his eyes, but the tears didn’t abate. His mouth was too dry and the lump in his throat was too big, but somehow the words still poured forth: “I love you. I always have and I always will.”

Nothing, then a quiet “I know.” Diarmuid drew back, wiping away Cú’s tears. “It wasn’t really a secret.” Then he held Cú, in that wonderful yet awful way, the one that made him feel precious and fragile and delicate, like he was something other than a mistake—like he was the beloved of the heroic Diarmuid ua Duibhne and always would be.

“I love you too, Cú.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next round will be cute schmaltz to make up for such a heavy piece. I'm really excited for it. 
> 
> Story Notes: Cú and Medb did not interact much in actual Irish mythology. In the tale "The Cattle Raid of Cooley," Medb wanted to be equal to her husband, and they were in all ways except one: her husband had this dope ass bull. Medb went to war to get an equally good bull, and cue our boy, Cú. He wrecked her army and murdered her pet stoats. Kind of a dick move. Medb also used to be married to Cú's uncle, King Conchobar, who was a royal dick all around. 
> 
> Diarmuid's foster father, Aengus Óg, in some versions of the myth took Diarmuid's body back to Brú na Bóinne after he died, where he breathed life into him any time he wanted to talk. Kind of creepy, but it gave me a way to allow closure for Cú.
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	26. Third Time's the Charm (Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first two times, he could only look up, awed by persons so high above him. But for the third, it does not feel like he is the one looking up when he gives his heart away.
> 
> The story of Diarmuid's two failed romances in Chaldea and the one time he got it right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I need to stop writing these absurdly wrong drabbles, sheesh. Next ones are going to be much shorter, I promise. 
> 
> Thanks to hovercraft aka firsthassan for this piece of [fanart](https://bit.ly/3bfCpUN)! Sorry for only now getting around to linking it, but if you don't know anything about hovercraft, they write excellent Gilgamesh/King Arthur fics (and some Diarmuid/Cú Alter too!) so you should definitely check them out. (Also this picture is not relevant to this drabble, but it is relevant to "N" in Alphabet Kisses, so there's that.) Check out the end notes for a cute picture from viceturtle. It's also not super relevant to the story, but I wanted to link something, so as always, enjoy!
> 
> Story Notes: I actually like Diartoria and Diarcu with Lancer Cú just fine, so this drabble is not intended to shipbash anyone, it's just that this is a Diarmuid/Cú Alter fic, so yannow. It's got to head that direction. Check out the end notes for mythology discussion.

The first time Diarmuid falls in love is like a hurricane.

It brews long before it strikes, swirling and building stronger and stronger, formed from that shining figure; bluer than lapis lazuli, hair like golden thread, her sword a beacon calling out to him. She stands in the waves, fearless, the spray lapping at her ankles, glittering light spilling down to frame her as she cries—“_EXCALIBUR!_”_—_and cleaves the walls around his heart. His Lioness. His King. The last person he sees before the final remnants of his honor die along with him.

But it is not over. She is there. In Chaldea, she is there, her eyes two verdant buds blooming with elation, and he knows his show the same. They run to each other, embrace, arms wrapping around one another, and his heart and lips sing over and over, “_Saber, oh Saber_” and she is laughing.

“Diarmuid,” her perfect pink Cupid’s bow of a mouth says, the one he longs to kiss, “call me Artoria, for we are no longer adversaries.”

So he does. He kneels and takes her hand, places his lips against the back of it, wishing once again it were the sweet flowerpetals of her smile instead, and says, “Artoria, my King.”

“Diarmuid, my knight.”

Then she pulls him to his feet, and even though he is a full head taller than her, it does not feel like he is the one looking down when she weaves her fingers through his hair, her cheeks tinged and lips parted as she unites them with his own. Bliss pools in his stomach and tingles in the tips of his ears, which are far too hot for the number of times he has done this (_But never with a king_, he reminds himself), and when it is over, when they are no longer a whole but rather just Artoria and Diarmuid again, she laces her fingers through his.

“Come,” she says, then laughs as he grins so wide it hurts, “let me show you around.”

* * *

Chaldea is so wonderful he wants to pinch himself. He meets Master Ritsuka, a fine and virtuous young woman, and he is struck by how kind she is, how she treats him more like a friend than a weapon. There is business for her to attend to, so off he and Artoria go to explore the rest of the facility, hand in hand, footsteps a perfect repeating pattern. The winter storm rages outside, flurries of white splattering across the cobalt blue canvas of the sky, but they are warm within the gray chrome walls.

She introduces him to Servant after Servant; Sabers and Lancers and Casters and Riders and even Avengers and Rulers. There are so many cultures it’s almost overwhelming, and his heart nearly stops when she waves at a man clad in a skin-tight blue suit. He waves back, then winks at Diarmuid, and Artoria is laughing so hard at the look on his face that she can barely get out, “That’s Cú Chulainn, but I’m sure you knew that already.”

Of course he does. There is not a child in Ireland who doesn’t know the man’s name, and Diarmuid is beside himself with glee. How often had he listened, eyes wide and mouth open, to the amazing feats of this warrior? How often had he pretended he rode in the chariot with Laeg or vanquished his opponents under the throes of the unstoppable _ríastrad_? It feels like a dream when she pulls him away to the sparring arena, and he blinks a few times as she summons Excalibur.

“It is time to finish our duel,” she says.

Her tone is even, but her eyes betray her mischief, and he rushes forward, both spears already in hand. She deflects, sweeps her blade in an arc that he dodges, then counterattacks. She sidesteps, strikes, steps back, lunges, parries, then again she is on the offensive and he blocks, grinning, his soul soaring as their blades clash over and over, almost more of a dance than a battle. All too soon, her sword is at his throat and he is on his knees, but it does not feel like defeat. Because she is standing over him, more radiant than all the stars in the sky, the luster of her eyes brighter than moonlight and twice as lovely, and he cannot help himself, his heart bursting with joy when he pulls her into his arms and kisses her lips and her nose and her hair, his beautiful king, his _Artoria. _

And the months that follow are just as perfect. He is a constant by her side; he adores her in every way, and she is eager to reciprocate his praise. They tell each other stories—her of Camelot and the Round Table, him of the Fianna and the Pursuit—they spar, they make love, they sing songs, they cry, they laugh. They go on adventure after adventure, they fight and sweat and bleed for their Master, and they walk together through it all.

He loves everything she shares, but especially her ultimate comfort, food. They sample udon and valdostana and tagine and dosas, they sip rose-chamomile tea and toast with champagne, they delight in génoise spongecake and black sesame riceballs and himbasha. Every flavor and spice and taste only makes Diarmuid hungrier for more, and Artoria’s eyes gleam each time they find a new delicacy.

The first crack in his happiness comes unexpectedly. She is teasing him, like she often does, about how easily he allows her opinion to sway him. In the midst of their banter, she asks him, “What do you want to eat tonight?”

“Whatever you want to eat.”

She laughs. “But that’s not what I asked. I asked what _you _wanted.”

“And that is what I want.”

Again, she laughs, but it’s forced, awkward. “Surely you must have a craving for something.”

He doesn’t. Their meal’s identity isn’t important to him, only that she enjoys it. He tells her as such, and he is surprised when she becomes distressed.

“Please pick something.” She fidgets. “Something you want. Not what I want.”

He mulls over his options—she quite enjoys Japanese food from her time spent there—and he settles on katsudon.

The meal is too quiet. For once in her life, Artoria doesn’t devour the dish within seconds, instead staring ahead of her blankly. Finally, she says, “Diarmuid, when you call me king, what do you actually mean?”

The question is puzzling, but he still smiles. “I mean exactly what I say.” He bows. “You are the King of Knights, the most noble of warriors, and I am your loyal subject, whose grace you bestowed upon despite my undeserving status. All I wish is to serve you and Master for as long as I remain in Chaldea.”

This is apparently not what she wants to hear. She throws down her chopsticks. “Is that what this is? You have been my servant this entire time?”

Her anger leaves him confused. “I… did you not wish to have me as a retainer? Have I disappointed you?” He blinks as her eyes fill with tears. “Artoria?”

“I am a fool,” she whispers, her shoulders shaking. “I let happiness blind me.” Then she flees, blue skirt swishing around her legs, while he sits at the table, his stomach in his feet. 

It is days before he sees her again. She sends him a note telling him to meet her in the third floor lounge. He does so, and finds her sitting on a couch, hands folded in her lap.

He rushes to take them, happiness bubbling in his stomach, but it dissipates as she pulls them out of his grasp.

“I summoned you here to explain my thoughts,” she says. “I have been deep in contemplation these past few days, and I have decided we should no longer remain in a romantic relationship.”

The words are a gut punch. He reels. “Artoria, why—”

“I cannot be with someone who doesn’t view himself as my equal.”

It’s ludicrous. How can she expect that of him? He is a knight, one who was denied honor in his original life, while she is the King of Camelot. It was a blessing just to look upon her face. He wants to tell her this, but all that comes out is, “Does my love mean nothing to you?”

“I will always treasure our time together,” she says softly. “But you don’t love me. You love the idea of me.” Then again, he is alone, and instead of the walls surrounding it, it is his heart that is cleaved in two.

* * *

He doesn’t know where he went wrong.

The grief eats at him. He is afraid to sleep, for his dreams are filled with that cerulean figure, standing just out of reach. That goddess in the waves.

It seems unfair that he, the foster son of the God of Love, should be denied its sweet pleasure. That throughout his life, every romance was nothing but an empty promise. His Love Spot had tainted all if it, and now—now that he’d finally found a woman who resists its charms, he still cannot hold onto happiness. The cruelty of it decimates him.

Various Servants comfort him. Even his childhood hero, Cú Chulainn, often invites him out for sparring or drinks. “Cheer up,” he says, patting Diarmuid on the back, “a handsome fellow like you will find a new squeeze in no time.”

But he doesn’t want another. He wants Artoria. Oh sure, there are many beautiful women in Chaldea. Plenty of fine gentlemen and other genders as well. Hell, Cú himself isn’t exactly hard on the eyes, and he’s a ruthless flirt to everyone, including Diarmuid. Many times, he teases, “If you’re lonely, I might provide some company” but despite Diarmuid’s blush, he never takes him up on the offer.

Even so, it’s easier to deal with his grief if he doesn’t dwell on it. He throws himself into missions and drinking and socializing. Cú is there the entire time, his cheerleader by his side, and he finds more often than not, he looks forward to seeing him in particular. Slowly, he begins to seek him out, to earn his approval, his laugh.

The second time Diarmuid falls in love is like a fire.

It starts innocent enough. He enjoys talking with the man, hearing those famous stories from the lips of the legend himself. His heart races as they spar, his spirit numbs as they drink, and his belly hurts as they laugh. But there is something about him, something in the way Diarmuid feels that is different from the idolatry he’d reserved for Artoria. Maybe it’s how casually Cú treats him, maybe it’s the impish gleam in those ruby eyes, maybe it’s the novelty of considering a man. Diarmuid is a novice in that area—sure, he remembers Oscar, Fionn’s grandson, back in Ireland. Blond, handsome, a boyish grin; they’d indulge each other after battles sometimes, kissing and caressing, but nothing further than that. Men couldn’t get married, and they'd both agreed they enjoyed women just as much, but now that heirs and social taboos are a thing of the past, Diarmuid finds himself tempted more and more. The only problem… was he worthy of someone like Cú?

He’d never believed himself worthy of Artoria. It had been a mercy on her part that she’d taken him as a lover, and he’d repaid her in absolute devotion. But it turned out that had meant nothing, and even if it hadn’t, Cú is not a king, and Diarmuid cannot strike the same deal as retainer. He will have to prove himself if he wishes to make their union a reality.

So he does. He fights harder than ever; he builds his foundation up, brick by metaphorical brick, laying the framework for his heart’s new purpose. He reciprocates Cú’s advances, just coy enough to spark interest, but not cold enough to dissuade. That little spark hangs on, spreading, until neither of them can handle it anymore. The kindling was always there, but now that the match has been struck, in an instant it is ablaze.

It burns his skin, passion sizzling just underneath the surface, as their lips meet and their hands roam. His heart is hammering, his head is swimming, and he breathes in cedar and juniper, so crisp and fresh despite the warmth buzzing along his nerves. They tumble into Cú’s quarters, a tangled mass of limbs, and the sensations are somehow alien and familiar at the same time.

The next day, Diarmuid wakes in the other man’s arms. His cheeks heat up when he remembers his role on the receiving end, but Cú is just as cocky and charming as ever. They eat breakfast and kiss and cuddle and wrestle and enjoy a few more rounds of lovemaking, and by the end of the day, Artoria feels more like a painful memory than a constant ache.

It is refreshing to no longer feel inferior to his partner, Diarmuid has to admit. Cú puts on no airs; he’s almost comically silly, but with just a snap, morphs into a fierce hero. It makes Diarmuid’s head spin in the best way, and he delights in the two versions of the man—the serious side for missions and the jovial trickster in Chaldea. Their relationship reflects this: they tease and romp, they secure fortresses, they sit in one another’s lap, they ambush enemies, they exhibit far too much PDA, they hold off advancing armies. It feels fun to be so loud and brave, yet ruthless and unashamed; Diarmuid can’t remember ever laughing so much with another person.

The second crack in his happiness he should have seen coming. He knows his lover’s reputation; he’s listened to the stories since the time he could barely toddle. Yet it’s still a shock to his system when he spots his beloved Cú happily intertwined on a couch with the red Archer, Emiya.

He rushes forward. “Cú!” he hisses.

“Yes?” The man breaks away, beaming up at Diarmuid. “How’s it going.”

He drags Cú away instead of answering, then glares. “Mind telling me what was about?”

“What? Me and Emiya?” At the nod, Cú says, “Oh, you know, we’ve had this rivals with benefits thing going on ever since we both got summoned to Chaldea. He’s an ass, but damn if it isn’t a fine one.”

Diarmuid is an inch away from choking. “And you’re… still seeing him?”

“Yeah, is that a problem?”

Spoken so casually. There’s not a hint of guilt in his voice; he truly sees nothing wrong with his comments, and it takes all of Diarmuid’s willpower not to slap him. “I thought we were together,” he says, finally, and Cú’s brow furrows.

“We are.” He takes Diarmuid’s hand and smiles. “I think about you every day, my emerald hawk.” He leans in to kiss him, but Diarmuid jerks away.

“But not so much that you’d remain faithful?”

“Faithful? How is—” His mouth opens wide. “Wait… do you mean I’m supposed to not see Emiya anymore?”

Diarmuid doesn’t respond, but instead walks away, because there won’t be any victor in this argument, especially not with the shameful lump in his throat the size of a tennis ball. Cú is too used to the standards of his time, and Diarmuid is unfortunately enamored with the modern notion of monogamy. He doubts broaching the idea would result in anything other than Cú becoming defensive, perhaps even hostile, and this situation doesn’t need to be made any messier than it already is.

He stews in the sparring arena, unleashing his frustration on various mannequins, until he’s too tired to even think about crying. Why had he not expected this outcome? Why had he ever believed he was enough?

“Bad day?” says a familiar voice, and he scowls.

“What does it matter to you?” he snaps at Artoria, who stands just a few feet away, a beautiful blue jay wearing a concerned smile.

“I hate seeing you unhappy.”

He laughs harshly. “That didn’t seem very important when you left me.”

“It was a happiness built on a lie.” She moves closer. “You always overestimated me. Eventually you would realize I was never the person you envisioned.”

He somehow understands her and doesn’t at the same time. He sits, and she settles next to him.

“This is about Cú, isn’t it?” she asks, and he doesn’t even have to nod before she touches his arm in sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

He stares at her hand for a long time. Then, his voice wearier than he intends it to be, he says, “Was it so bad to live a lie?”

It had been all he’d known for so long. Diarmuid, the knight who must act loyal to his lord, even though he ran away with his betrothed. Diarmuid, the paramour who must pretend to love a princess, even though she forced him to betray everything he stood for. Diarmuid, the servant who must respect his Master, even though the man despises him. His entire life had been repression, deception, fake—what was wrong with finally finding a lie that made him happy?

“You deserve better,” she says. “And I pray you realize that one day. But”—she takes his hand—”right now, I think you deserve some good old-fashioned fish and chips.”

It’s so unexpected that he can’t help but laugh. And as she pulls him to his feet, for once, he doesn’t see the goddess in the waves, but rather just Artoria, the woman who is his friend.

* * *

He never officially breaks up with Cú, but his standoffish attitude seems to alert the man of his intentions. He steers clear, and Diarmuid devotes his time and energy to Chaldea and its goals. He’s spending more time with Artoria as well, learning all of her idiosyncrasies in a way he never did when all he could see was the savior of Britain—in a way that hadn’t been possible during their courtship. Neither of them rekindle their earlier romance, but he doesn’t view her friendship as a consolation prize. It’s an honor just to know her.

Still, he can’t shake the hole within him. Maybe it’s because of his upbringing with Aengus, maybe it’s a deeper personal problem, but whatever it is, there is a chasm inside of him that he’s sure would be filled if only he could find his other half. He’s ashamed of it; his focus should be on assisting Master, yet he consistently yearns, as juvenile and unknightly as it may be.

It’s only made worse when Fionn is summoned. The man learns of Diarmuid’s previous lovers through rumors, then teases him mercilessly on failings both past and present. He grows tired of it before it even begins.

So he avoids him. He heads to the sparring arena as early as possible, before the rest of Chaldea awakens, so that he may train in peace. It’s not as effective without a partner, but there’s a placid quality to the time spent with himself.

That is, until someone else shows up.

It’s a servant new to Chaldea, but not new to Diarmuid. His heart sinks when he arrives one morning to find the massive Berserker, his former superior the Mad King Cú Alter, slashing at a few mannequins. The man is a whirl of red and black, far larger than his other counterparts, and quite a great deal more threatening. Diarmuid sets up on the opposite end of the room. Too close, and it’d be nothing but a thorn in his side, a painful reminder of America and serving the Celts. It had only been due to Fionn’s jingoistic desire that Diarmuid had done so, and he’s regretted it ever since.

Thankfully, the altered form of Cú Chulainn doesn’t take much heed of him. They train separately, head off to the showers—where Cú Alter uses a private stall—then go on their separate ways. However, he finds the man again when he goes to report to Master.

It’s become a new pastime of his to spend as much of his free time as he can assisting in any mission efforts. Often the tasks are menial—boring supply missions or analyzing mind-numbing data—but at least it gives Diarmuid purpose and doesn’t allow his thoughts to wander to the chasm within him. But now, with Cú Alter peering diligently over Master’s shoulder, his heart sinks just like it did that morning. Whether the man truly is a variation on Cú or something else entirely, his face is similar enough to make him second guess his new resolve.

But professionalism first. He aids in any duties required of him, staying out of Cú Alter’s way, and the day ends without incident.

This routine continues. The mornings are spent training by himself, always aware of the other man’s presence but never acknowledging it, and the afternoons are spent speaking to Master and Master alone. If Cú Alter is offended by this, he never lets on, and he’s remarkably taciturn in general, even downright aloof to women. He speaks only when spoken to, so unlike the gregarious Lancer who shares his face.

And as time goes on, Diarmuid begins to wonder if there are any qualities they share. This Cú is not flirtatious or extroverted; he doesn’t boast and he never talks back. He is a stoic wall, always poised and ready, his eyes so intense they could bore holes in one’s soul. He never references America or his time spent as king. It seems he shed the title faster than a snake sheds its skin, his only goal now to serve Master with unwavering loyalty.

How peculiar. It puzzles Diarmuid, but the more he thinks about it, the more it troubles him. How could this man have fought so fiercely against a master he now serves without question? Does he believe in any cause, adhere to any personal philosophy? Or is he simply a weapon and nothing more?

While the questions do burn, a deeper worry niggles at the back of Diarmuid’s mind: _Is this so different from how you conduct yourself? _It’s true, as loyal as he is to his code of chivalry, his loyalty to his lord is just as important. He is a knight first and foremost, his master’s spear—even if he wouldn’t switch sides so easily, he tells himself. He must believe it; otherwise he shares something in common with a monster.

Day after day, week after week, he broods and ponders, until finally he decides he must put this to rest. He will talk to Cú Alter. He will learn his inner workings. And he will realize they are nothing alike.

The day starts out like any other. They enter, take their places, but before they start, Diarmuid calls out, “Would you care to spar with me?”

Cú doesn’t answer at first. He just scrutinizes Diarmuid with those ruby eyes—closer to maroon, really; yet another difference between him and his Lancer counterpart—then nods. “Okay,” he says and crosses over to Diarmuid.

He is a force to be reckoned with, but Diarmuid still holds his ground. He congratulates Cú on the match—who merely grunts in response—then heads off to the showers with him in tow, where they take their respective spots of communal area and private stall.

During lunch, Diarmuid attempts to strike up a conversation to little success. This pattern repeats over the next few weeks. They spar, then again and again, he brings up any topic he can think that might spark interest. But nothing elicits more than a few words. Out of desperation, he even attempts sensitive subjects such as Medb, but the only tell are the man's suddenly tense shoulders. Which leads Diarmuid to his epiphany—he has been approaching this the wrong way the entire time. Cú may not talk much, but he still communicates all the same. Just watching the man’s body language reveals a wealth of information: tense shoulders during displeasure, a tail twitch during agitation, a relaxed mouth during contentment. It seems like any free moment Diarmuid has with him he spends analyzing these quirks, and he soon realizes that Medb is a sore subject, and though Cú never discusses much in regard to Master, he views her quite fondly. 

It’s unclear if Cú is aware of Diarmuid's efforts or just indifferent. Even so, he humors any requests for sparring, he sits at Diarmuid’s table in the Chaldea cafeteria during meals (despite never eating), and he fights alongside him during battles. But throughout it all, he is as closed off as a steel trap, and Diarmuid resigns himself to the tidbits he can gleam from body language. Hell, he may as well be interrogating Cú's spear; it's about as talkative. 

But one day there is a crack in that stony facade. Bored during a lull in a mission, Diarmuid initiates a game of fidchell, an ancient Celtic board game somewhat similar to chess. After he explains the rules, they play several rounds, with him the victor every time. In fact, it soon becomes apparent that Cú’s moves make little sense. Diarmuid begins to grow aggravated, and finally he snaps, “If you wish to play another game, speak up. Otherwise there is no point if you always let me win.”

Cú regards him coolly. “I have no complaints; perhaps you are the one who wishes to play another game.”

Despite the condescending words, the man’s shoulders do not tense and his tail doesn’t twitch. He’s not offended; from the quirk of his lip, he’s actually _amused. _It’s an emotion Diarmuid has never seen on his face, so unlike the aloof tolerance he usually displays, but annoyance overpowers any curiosity. Diarmuid spends the rest of the mission going over their debriefing materials instead of socializing.

Upon arriving back in Chaldea, his mood is only made worse when Fionn accosts them. “Diarmuid!” The man beams. “Break any hearts while you were out?”

“No,” he mutters, then slumps as Fionn falls into step beside him.

“Ah, I see. Perhaps yours is still too tender for those sorts of shenanigans.”

He grits his teeth. He understands Fionn’s resentment, but it’s still a low blow to bring that up.

To his surprise, he notices that Cú’s shoulders have gone tense. “Excuse me,” the man says to Fionn. “But we actually have a prior engagement. I would advise you depart.”

Fionn is equally as surprised. “I… of course.” He leaves, and Diarmuid faces Cú with a frown.

“I challenge you to another round of fidchell,” Cú says. At Diarmuid’s astonished stare, his lip quirks like before, but nothing more. “Well?”

“Okay,” Diarmuid replies, still reeling.

It becomes apparent during their match that Cú’s earlier antics weren’t just nonsense. He’s far better during these rounds, anticipating Diarmuid’s moves well in advance, and even getting close to winning. Diarmuid’s distracted state doesn’t make things easier for him.

Right after they begin their last round, he can’t take it anymore. “Why did you stand up for me?” he blurts out.

“You are a valuable asset to our master.” Cú moves a piece. “If you are upset, you might not perform as well in the field, which may cost our master’s life. I cannot risk that chance.”

Such a weirdly impersonal motivation. For some reason Diarmuid is disappointed, and Cú wins the round.

“I need to get a shower,” Diarmuid mumbles once the pieces are put away. He’s meeting Artoria tonight for an art therapy session hosted by a Chaldea staff member, and he’s still coated in all matter of grime from the mission.

Cú follows him, which isn’t surprising considering he’s also filthy, but what is surprising is that he doesn’t head off to his usual private stall. Instead, he dematerializes his outfit, then wets his hair, already armed with soap and shampoo.

Diarmuid tries to act casual. He positions himself a few stalls away, respecting the other man’s privacy at first, but eventually curiosity gets the better of him. Even with clothes on, it’s clear this Cú Chulainn is taller and broader than his Lancer form, but after a peek, Diarmuid’s cheeks burn at the most prominent difference. Dear Lugh, why had Medb augmented him so?

He’s still blushing by the time he meets up with Artoria. “You okay?” she asks, and he nods hurriedly.

“Attention, everyone!” the Chaldea staff member says. While they assemble behind their canvases, she beams at the gathered crowd. “As part of Chaldea’s ongoing mental wellness efforts, we’re so glad you decided to join us for our first art therapy session. The goal for today is to relax you and provide mindfulness to all things that affirm and uplift you. Let’s get started!”

They ready their brushes, and Diarmuid’s mind wanders as the staff member speaks in a low, soothing voice.

“Imagine a person… someone special… what do they look like? Imagine their face… their posture…”

His brush dabs and blots and streaks across the canvas. There are so many people who fit—Artoria and Cú Lancer and Master Ritsuka and even Fionn, but none of them emerge. No, the black and red takes shape, takes form into the spiky outline of none other than Cú Alter. He blinks, mouth open in surprise, then sheepishly grabs a new canvas to begin again. This isn’t what he wants to picture.

* * *

To his chagrin, the bizarre friendliness continues. Cú shoos Fionn away any time the man’s jabs go too far. He always reserves a seat for Diarmuid in the cafeteria. He sometimes even greets Diarmuid in the morning when they meet to spar. It makes Diarmuid uneasy—what game is afoot for their dynamic to change this way?

It bothers him for weeks until the day of a supplies mission. The morning is typical—sparring with Cú, then off to the showers—where Diarmuid now waits for Cú to leave the communal area before beginning his own. Unfortunately, this means by the time he heads to breakfast, it’s too late to cook something for himself and most of the cafeteria options are gone.

He slumps into a chair at the table where Master and Cú sit. Cú pushes a plate over to him.

He glances down at the French toast in shock. “Is this for me?”

“Who else would it be for?” Master laughs. “Cú saved some for you.”

The man merely grunts, but Diarmuid has gotten used to the response.

“I should tell you both about our mission today,” Master says once Diarmuid has almost devoured all of his French toast. “Even though it’s technically a supplies mission, it’s important that I be the first to touch our item of interest.”

Diarmuid raises an eyebrow.

“Dr. Roman and Da Vinci believe they’ve located a scepter that may aid us in the next Singularity. Unfortunately, it will only obey the one who removes it from its resting place.”

Diarmuid listens attentively as she elaborates on a few more details. When he’s finished off his breakfast and she has nothing more to say, he clears his throat. “What are we waiting for?”

* * *

Things go smoothly for a time. They barge into the decrepit fortress, defeat the horde of ghouls in their way, then ascend a flight of stairs into a large, rectangular chamber. In the center sits the Scepter of Samarkand, glittering emeralds and rubies inlaid upon its gold expanse, and Master Ritsuka removes it reverently from its pedestal.

“Are we cleared for rayshift?” Cú asks as she cradles the object.

She frowns down at her communicator. “Not yet. Signal is spotty—of course. We should head higher up; we might have better luck.”

The roar of a dragon from above them proves that idea foolish. Diarmuid readies his spears. “You two find an unoccupied room and get rayshift working. I’ll hold off the beast.”

Without another word, Cú whisks Master away.

Keeping low to the ground, Diarmuid searches on the upper levels, his eyes peeled for his scaly adversary. A rush of fire alerts him to success.

He dodges, rolls away from the swiping claws, black as obsidian. The dragon snaps at him with drooling jaws, and he slashes behind its horns. It shudders, backing up, watching him with wary, reptilian eyes. For a few seconds they circle each other, muscles tense, before they lunge. Diarmuid feigns to the right, then strikes at the dragon’s soft yellow underbelly, killing it, but not before its claws rake across his hip.

He bites his hand to muffle the cry of pain. Blood drips from his wound as he limps back in the direction Master had left. To his surprise, he runs into Cú halfway there.

It might be his imagination—everything does feel a little foggy—but for a split second, he swears a relieved smile flashes across Cú’s face. Then suddenly he is no longer on his feet, instead slung over Cú’s shoulder, while the man races back through the fortress.

Fury churns in his stomach. Has Cú abandoned Master? He’s about to call the man an idiot when they enter a chamber filled with a large rune circle, the protective wards encircling Master as she furiously taps at her communicator. Diarmuid’s fury dies; of course Cú wouldn’t be so reckless as to leave her unprotected.

There is a cry of triumph, then Master gathers both of them close as the familiar shimmer of rayshift starts. The fortress disintegrates around them and the void yawns open as they head home.

* * *

Diarmuid flops down on his bed back in Chaldea, his injuries gone but his mind buzzing like a hornet’s nest. He stares at the ceiling until he can no longer focus.

Why in the world had Cú come back for him? It doesn’t make any sense; even if the dragon had defeated him, he would have rematerialized back at rayshift. There was no logical purpose to it. Unless…

He blinks as a single tear escapes. What a foolish thought. Cú may not have the regal bearing of Artoria or the willful pride of his Lancer counterpart, but he still outranks Diarmuid in every way. Former king, legendary warrior, Master’s righthand spear—what is a lowly knight in comparison? There is no way any kind of bond could form between them.

_But you are her spear too. _

Yes, which makes his musings all the more terrible. Diarmuid sits up, hugging his knees to his chest. It has always been his greatest flaw that he cannot live up to the expectations set forth for him, that he cannot devote himself fully to his superior. No matter how hard he tries, his selfish desires always lead him astray. His heart still yearns and he still dreams of the piece that would ease the chasm within him. It was almost blasphemous to wonder if Cú thought the same; just a stupid wish, like all his others, that he could ever be worthy of warriors as majestic as Artoria or Cú Chulainn.

But yet, defying all odds, Cú Alter still came back for him. He still _smiled _when he saw Diarmuid alive. He still carried him over his shoulder. These were not the actions of an unfeeling weapon. No, little by little, he has watched Cú open up. He has watched that careful veneer—constructed out of a sense of duty and purpose to suppress those base human emotions—split and crack. And he has seen it again and again, no matter how hard he tries to deny it, that they are more similar than at first glance. They both bear the scars of a Love Geas. They both uphold their Servant roles above even their own humanity. And, no matter how foolish, no matter how much they adhere to those roles, they both want something beyond it, something not even Master or the Grail can provide. Because no disciple would abandon his master, he realizes, unless totally and wholeheartedly compelled.

The third time Diarmuid falls in love is like the tide. It is slow and gradual, wearing and eroding, carving patterns and shapes and peeling back layer after layer. It sings and whispers, it dances, it is a force unlike any other, and it overflows him until there is nothing to stop the dam of his heart from bursting.

* * *

Diarmuid runs to the sparring arena that morning with purpose. His heart hammers and his palms are clammy, but his mind is at ease. He knows just how he can prove himself.

Cú greets him like any other morning, but this time Diarmuid plants his spear. “I wish to make a wager with you.”

“Oh?” Cú says.”

“I wager my devotion. And for you”—he points at Cú, who raises his eyebrow—“you shall wager your heart. Victor takes all.”

Surprise flashes across his face, then it is gone, replaced by a toothsome grin. “Very well. I accept.”

Even though Diarmuid has fought with the man so many times before, he’s still not fully prepared for the speed of Cú’s first assault. He barely blocks, gritting his teeth from the strain, then sidesteps, circling around to attack Cú’s back. The man has already moved, spear at the ready, and Diarmuid holds off the strike with shaky hands.

Again, Cú forces him back, jabbing and slicing. Diarmuid's counters never grant him an offensive position, and sweat beads on his forehead. There is too much at stake here to lose.

He finds an opening when he ducks under the cursed spear. He almost lands a slash when Cú blocks, knocking him off balance. He’s not sure he can block the next blow, but to his surprise, Cú stalls. The hesitation is just enough time for him to disarm the man and claim victory.

It doesn’t feel like victory, though. Diarmuid glares at the man. “You let me win.”

Cú doesn’t even bother arguing the accusation. He just smiles while Diarmuid fumes. It’s beyond insulting, and suddenly Diarmuid is boiling, too angry to even speak.

He manages to pry open his clenched teeth and say, “New wager. My heart goes to the victor.” He smirks when Cú accepts. This time the man will have to defeat him, but he won't make the battle easy. 

He is far more ferocious than last round. He jabs and swipes and rushes at Cú with all the vigor of a rampaging ox. But Cú still keeps him at bay, never quite letting him land a finishing blow, until again he purposefully stalls long enough for Diarmuid to disarm him.

Diarmuid wants to scream. He doesn’t understand; why is he being shown this disrespect? Has he misread this situation all along? If Cú won't fight for Diarmuid’s heart, yet offers up his own, then what is he to interpret?

Cú betrays nothing on his face; he just regards Diarmuid coolly. “One more match,” he says. “But this time no wagers.”

Fine. Diarmuid lunges right after the words leave Cú’s mouth. He uses enough force to crack his spear. He doesn’t hold back. Even when he pants for air and his arms beg for rest, he carries on, pushing Cú back farther and farther.

It grows to be too much. He stumbles, and Cú disarms him, finally the victor. He falls to his knees.

“What do you want?” he snarls. “Why did you let me win, then defeat me?”

Cú doesn't blink. “Sometimes to win, you first have to lose.”

Nonsense. It’s all nonsense. Diarmuid holds back tears as he stands up. If Cú will not respect this fight, will not respect _him_, then he will leave.

He stops when Cú lays a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t care for a wagered heart,” the man says. “Whether it is your heart or mine, I wish for it to be freely given.”

Diarmuid shakes his head. Suddenly he’s tired, oh so tired. “Those two things are not equivalent.”

“Then how do I make it so?”

His mind blanks. He whirls to face Cú, whose head is bowed, solemn. There is no hint of a joke in his voice, even though the words are as farcical as they come. 

“What do you mean?” Diarmuid asks, for even though he has an idea of the answer, he wants to hear it from the other man’s lips. He _needs _to hear it, needs it more than air or water, because for once he wants to be outmaneuvered, like this has all been secretly a game of fidchell.

“Your company was more than I could have ever hoped to gain. For your heart, ask of me whatever you must. Because no matter what it may be, if it earns me such a treasure, then I gladly accept.”

Unlike earlier, Diarmuid cannot hold back his tears. This moment is too surreal. His entire life has been spent in search of approval and validation. He has always assumed his deficiencies were the reason for his continual pain. But now the tables have turned—now, instead of a dream forever out of reach, someone has come to place it in his hands. A promise, heartfelt and true, created entirely for him. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous. But he cannot unhear what was said. For even though his most notable legend is labeled “The Pursuit,” Diarmuid has never known what it felt like to be sought after, and now that he is, he doesn’t know how to handle the feeling.

Thankfully, his body responds for him. He embraces Cú, tilting his chin so that he may see his face. The maroon eyes are wide, surprised, but there is a glimmer of happiness deep within them. Weaving his fingers through the blue locks, Diarmuid smiles, and even though he is a full head shorter than the other man, it does not feel like he is the one looking up when he says, “It is already yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As promised, the pic [here](https://ibb.co/F0R5rNr).
> 
> Mythology Notes: Cú was kind of a philanderer in his myths, and he still slept around even after getting together with his wife, Emer. She was fine with it, but not everyone is her, and while I think Cú would respect his partner's wishes if asked, it's not his natural instinct to be monogamous. Sadly, Diarmuid cannot communicate his feelings for the life of him, so it doesn't work out. Laeg was the name of Cú's charioteer, and the ríastrad is the Irish name for his warp spasm.
> 
> Fidchell actually appears in Diarmuid's legend. He was supposedly the best at the game, and the only person who could beat Fionn in a match. One day, Fionn's group is camped underneath a tree where Diarmuid and Gráinne are hiding. Fionn and his grandson, Oscar, start a match and Diarmuid starts throwing berries to guide Oscar's moves. When he wins, Fionn realizes Diarmuid is there. Speaking of Oscar, legends describe him and Diarmuid as best buds, and Oscar even defects to Diarmuid's side during "The Pursuit" and helps him fight off an army. If Diarmuid were to have been with any man in his life, I imagine Oscar would probably be a good candidate. 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	27. Happiest Place on Earth (Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cú is miserable in the happiest place on Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I totally lied when I said this was going to be short, but this turned out to be really fun to write. Poor Cú. He just can't catch a break. Check out a couple pics by viceturtle in the end notes. 
> 
> Anyway, corporate Disney is totally evil, but ngl if someone offered me a free trip to Disney World, I'd be all over that.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“Cú! Wake up!”

He groaned, blinking blearily as Diarmuid leaped off the bed. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes at the green blur bouncing around the room.

“Today is the day, Cú! Today is finally the day!”

Unfortunately, he couldn’t muster up as much enthusiasm. As Diarmuid grabbed his hands, pulling him to his feet, he groaned. “It’s just a supplies mission. We’re only there to gather materials.”

“And have FUN!” Diarmuid spun around, clapping his hands together. “Did you watch the videos Dr. Roman sent us? It looks amazing.”

It had looked like cheesy propaganda to Cú. Still, he didn’t want to put a damper on Diarmuid’s mood, so to humor him, he nodded along.

As they exited Cú’s quarters, the rest of Chaldea buzzed with energy. Servant after servant scurried around with huge, happy grins, some wearing more casual clothing suited for a day at the beach, while others wore attire bearing the logo of their destination. That didn’t seem wholly professional to Cú, but he kept his mouth shut.

The crowds grew denser as they approached the rayshift station. Cú had never seen so many people there, and part of him worried about how the system would handle the load. Due to the appeal of this supplies mission, Chaldea had permitted access for every servant, under the stipulation that it also counted as one of their allotted recreational events. No one had any complaints.

In the midst of the crowd, Dr. Roman stood waving his arms. “Everyone! Double check that you have your mission materials! You should have a premium pass, a dining card, IDs for the drinking age adults, and two hundred dollars. If you don’t remember what that is, it’s our destination’s currency.”

Cú turned to Diarmuid. “You have the stuff, right?”

“Yes.” Diarmuid lovingly patted the bag by his side. “Don’t you worry. I have everything we need right here.”

“Diarmuid!”

Cú flinched as Artoria pounced on the man with an uncharacteristic squeal.

“This is going to be so much fun!” she gushed.

“I know!” he gushed back.

“Attention, everyone!” shouted Master, effectively interrupting their spaz session. She’d gotten on some sort of pedestal to see over the crowd, and Cú noted—to his chagrin—she appeared just as ecstatic as most of the other Servants. “Everyone divide into your groups of six. We’ve decided we’re rayshifting by group to not overwhelm the system. Remember the rules—we’re staying for three days. If you don’t remember your hotel assignment, please check your mission materials. During those three days, you will have access to any of the parks or attractions, but!” She raised a finger. “Don’t forget to gather any useful materials you come across. This is a very unique place, as we shouldn’t encounter enemies, but rather materials should have accumulated due to the intrinsic story-telling integral to this place’s foundation. There will be civilians present, so please! No fighting or magic! For once, I _don't_ want a bunch of warriors or mages!” She smiled. “Have fun!”

Diarmuid and Artoria pulled Cú along until they’d met up with Cú Lancer, Emiya, and Musashi, forming the group Cú Lancer had dubbed earlier “Triple Date.”

“I’m so excited!” Musashi said, holding Artoria’s hand. She’d actually changed out of her normal outfit into a pair of blue denim shorts and a white tank top. Cú Lancer had also shucked his armor, instead wearing a garish Hawaiian shirt and tight black pants, while Emiya had donned a gray polo and black slacks. Cú, Diarmuid, and Artoria were the only ones still wearing their usual garb, although Artoria had shirked her silver armor to leave her blue dress uncovered.

As they waited for their turn, his five group members pored over maps and brochures: “Have you seen this ride?” “What about this show?” “Oh yes, we should definitely check that out!” “Guys… this place has wine tasting.” “No way! This is going to be awesome!”

Eventually, it was their turn to rayshift. They assembled in their respective spots, waited for the distinctive shimmer, then… Cú blinked in the sunlight.

During Dr. Roman’s extensive research into their location, he’d told them early December was the optimal time for reduced visitors and crowding. Based on the information, Cú had been surprised at the amount of summer wear he’d seen at rayshift, but now that he stood here—it was _warm. _

The area around them had been fashioned to look like a lagoon. A too-blue pool of water, filled with lily pads and surrounded by a grove of palm trees, sat off to their right. Behind them stood multiple buildings in an architectural style he couldn’t name, their doors open to let their sleepy guests dressed in flip flops and baseball caps pour out toward the main road stretching ahead.

This was not the same land where Cú had been king nearly 200 years ago. This was… way too corporate and clean.

Diarmuid grabbed his hand, and his other group members whooped in excitement. “Come on!"

They had to take a monorail to reach the main station of the resort. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they stood in front of a large arch proclaiming, “_Welcome to Disney World! The Happiest Place on Earth!_”

That seemed doubtful to Cú, but immediately he was struck by his group members’ reactions. Their shining eyes and joyous grins were the exact same as the civilians. Indeed, everything here felt like a shiny veneer built to reinforce this notion. The strange faux buildings designed to fit any theme, the countless palm trees and flowerbeds, the smiling costumed mascots, even the looming castle in the distance, too picturesque for any kind of real utility, all existed solely to capture the heart of this resort’s message: _“The world does not exist beyond here. Here, there is only happiness._”

He bristled. The cloying sugary smells and body odor around him didn’t remind him of comfort or charm; it was a threat in disguise. This was an open-air fortress, designed to hide its inner workings. His mind buzzed with methods of supply chains, maintenance, executive decisions, board meetings… how much effort went into making this place appear effortless?

No one else seemed to have these thoughts. Instead, they ran and shouted, oohing and ahhing over every inane detail they could find, until they entered an area labeled “_Disney’s Magic Kingdom._”

His Lancer counterpart whipped out the map. “We HAVE to try Space Mountain! It looked so cool in the video.”

“Yeah!” everyone else cheered, while Cú just grunted.

For over 45 minutes, they waited in a line snaking through an entire building. Strange animatronics and flashing lights served as “entertainment” along the way, but Cú was still bored out of his mind. Everyone else fawned over the gadgets, apparently unbothered by the wait, while he counted to one thousand over and over again. 

When it was their turn to ride, the rollercoaster attendant stopped Cú. “Um… sir. I’m afraid you won’t be able to ride. You’re too tall and your costume is far too bulky for our seats.”

He followed the attendant’s eyes to his large, spiky tail. Suddenly he was aware of how much he towered over the civilians behind him. Had they always been staring at him? Was someone taking a _picture?_

Already seated and buckled, Diarmuid asked, “Do you wish for me to get off and wait with you?” Judging by his tone, he was hoping the answer would be no.

Cú shook his head, then headed out of the ride, waiting by the exit. A few minutes later, the group came pouring out, laughing as they brushed back their windswept hair.

“Dude, that really sucks for you, because that was awesome!” his Lancer counterpart exclaimed.

He shrugged. “There’s other rides.”

Which also denied him access. “Sorry,” the Haunted Mansion attendant said, “but policy is policy.”

He gathered up mana prisms behind a few snack huts while he waited for the others. There, a couple stopped him for a picture.

“What character are you cosplaying?” said the taller of the two, a woman with cropped blue hair.

“Um.” Cú hadn’t prepared for this. “I’m… Zorgos.”

The couple stared at him blankly.

“It’s from"—he floundered—"Super Revenge 3.”

“Yeah,” the shorter woman, a stocky brunette, said in a tone that was clearly faking, “I love that one. It’s great. Can we take a picture with you?”

Reluctantly, he agreed, his smile strained as they huddled in close, their phone suspended on a stick. Neither of them even reached up to his chest, a fact that only reminded him of his predicament.

As they left, his group bounded over to him grinning. “I took pictures,” Diarmuid said. “Look.”

Cú perused the weird spooky images, wondering if they were more impressive in person. Diarmuid explained each one as they walked, but all too soon, they’d arrived at yet another ride, this one centered around an elephant with large, floppy ears.

This time, Cú didn’t even bother getting in line. Instead, he just morosely plucked up Seeds of Yggdrasil in the various flowerbeds. So far, this had been a pretty lousy mission. At least he usually had the opportunity to kill something.

When the group emerged from this ride, Diarmuid came striding toward him holding a stuffed elephant. “It's been vexing me that you haven’t been able to participate, so I bought you this.” He handed over the plush. “His name is Dumbo. I hope you like him.”

“Thanks,” Cú said. Truthfully, he thought the giant eyes and weird yellow hat looked kind of ugly, but he didn’t want to hurt Diarmuid’s feelings when he was making an effort.

“I convinced everyone to see a show next. They shouldn't prohibit you there.” Diarmuid smiled and laced his fingers through Cú’s. “It should be starting shortly.”

While it was nice to actually participate for once, Cú clued in quickly that he was not the target demographic, and neither were the other members of his group. Screaming children filled the audience, laughing and cooing at the silly puppets, and the obnoxiousness only ramped up once the performers started squirting water guns at the crowd.

“That was… juvenile,” Emiya said once it had finished.

“It was okay,” Artoria said in an unconvincing tone, Musashi nodding along. “Not the highlight of the trip.”

“Guys.” Cú Lancer pointed at a sign. “PIRATES! That ride is called Pirates of the Caribbean!”

“We have to go!” Musashi squealed, grinning at Artoria. She froze, then glanced at Cú nervously. “Is that… is that okay?”

He shrugged noncommittally, which his Lancer counterpart and Emiya took to be confirmation.

Diarmuid didn’t follow everyone else inside when they arrived. “I’ll stay here with you,” he said. “It can’t be any fun just waiting around.”

“I’ve been gathering materials, so it’s fine,” Cú replied. It was his own feeble attempt to absolve guilt, because yes, this had been a fairly shitty trip so far, but at the same time, he hadn’t been that excited for it in the first place, not like Diarmuid. Forcing the man to miss out on something for his sake would have only made things worse.

Looking conflicted, Diarmuid disappeared into the ride entrance while Cú set off to explore for more materials. Underneath an advertisement on a sign post, he found a patch of Void Dust. After he gathered it into his bag, he glanced up at the stereotypically attractive Caucasian couple. “_Discover more magic today!” _the ad said. Cú just snorted.

What an ironic concept. The magic described in the scene wasn’t real, yet somehow this place had attracted and conjured its own. Unwavering commitment to brand identity and public image had created belief, belief had fostered adoration, adoration led to something more. Disney was a god of its own making, one that hid its inner ugliness under a perpetually smiling mask.

A parade started down the street, and he stood on the sidelines to watch. “Happiest place on Earth, my ass,” he muttered to himself as the performers waltzed by. True, a few of the animatronics did draw his attention, but at this point there was almost a smug quality to his misery. He was immune to this place's charms.

If phrases were to believed, and misery did indeed love company, then it was that reason as to why he heard a soft sniffling from a few feet away. His interest piqued, he found a young girl in a bright pink dress, her chestnut brown hair topped by a headband bearing the Disney mascot ears, standing by a soda machine. No adult was present.

“Are you lost?” he asked, crouching down, because even though he didn’t care much for children, at least she provided a distraction from his self-pity.

Her lip wobbled as she stared up at him. “My daddy says I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers.”

Oh, right. Suddenly Cú felt very silly. Here he was, a huge and intimidating man, talking to a frightened little girl who probably thought he was going to eat her. Sheepishly, he rose to his feet and took a step back.

“Well, that’s a very good point,” he said in what he hoped was a comforting voice. He held out the stuffed elephant he’d received from Diarmuid. “Why don’t you hold onto this, and I’ll try to find your daddy. Can you tell me your name?”

She shuffled her feet, clutching onto the Dumbo plush like a life preserver. “Maddy,” she finally whispered.

“Okay, Maddy. I’m going to go find your daddy.”

Keeping one eye on her, he began to meander through the plaza, calling out, “Is anyone missing their child? There’s a little girl named Maddy here!”

“Maddy!” came a male voice, and Cú glanced over as a sunburnt man rushed over to the little girl. “Oh God, Maddy, you scared me! I told you not to wander off.” He frowned at her stuffed elephant. “Where did you get this?”

“The spiky man gave it to me.” She pointed to Cú.

The man whirled around, and his eyes widened, his neck craning up, up, up. Cú could almost smell the sour fear radiating off of him.

“Maddy,” the man gasped. He scooped her up and hurried away, his harried voice barely audible: “Maddy, I told you never to talk to strangers, and you accepted a toy from him, I can’t believe it—”

The rest he couldn’t hear, but he doubted it was any different. Even more despondent than before, he trudged back to the Pirates ride, only stopping to glare at a group of teenage boys who hollered, “_Hey, Dino Man!” _

Still peeved, his fingers twitched as he waited outside the ride exit. Gods, if only he could summon Gáe Bolg, he’d feel so much better.

“There you are!” Diarmuid raced over to him. “We were looking all over for you. The others are in line to get photos with Mickey and Minnie. If we hurry, we should still have enough time to make it.”

Cú snorted. “What’s the point? They’ll probably just tell me I won’t fit in the frame.”

He regretted the comment as soon as Diarmuid’s face crumpled.

“Oh, Cú.” Diarmuid cupped his cheek, his eyes shimmering with moisture. “I’m so sorry. Listen, from now on, I’m not leaving your side. We’ll figure out something fun together, okay?”

Cú deflated. “It’s better if only one of us isn’t having any fun,” he admitted. “I don’t want to ruin this trip for you. It’s all you’ve talked about for months.”

Diarmuid shifted his weight. “Look… let’s talk about this later. Right now, we have a picture to take.”

He held Cú’s hand all the way there, and—surprisingly enough—while the photographer did say, “_Wow, you’re a big boy,” _he didn’t force Cú out of the shoot. They took a few photos in various poses with the two costumed employees, who Cú noticed tried to stay at arm’s length away from him at all times.

Afterward, the group stopped to get turkey legs. Cú declined, wrinkling his nose at the greasy drumsticks, and while the others happily munched away, he listened as they discussed their next plan of action.

“We should go to the water park,” Musashi said. She mopped her brow. “We can cool off there before dinner.”

No one had any objections to this, and once the turkey bones were in the trash, they headed off to Blizzard Beach Water Park.

It was apparent to Cú as soon as they arrived that his situation wouldn’t change from Magic Kingdom. None of the slides or water rafting rides would be able to accommodate him, so he settled for chilling by the wading pool.

“Want any company?” Diarmuid asked.

Cú shooed him off. “You go have fun,” he said, refusing to take no for an answer, regardless of Diarmuid's protests.

After everyone dried off, they headed to Epcot for dinner. Their dining plan didn’t cover alcohol, but Cú was relieved that the others excused him from pitching in when they bought a bottle of Merlot, just dry enough to complement their steaks and veal. Still, split six-ways, he found himself wishing for quite a bit more.

“That was such a great day,” Cú Lancer sighed, resting against Emiya’s chest once they were back in the hotel room. “I can’t believe how much fun I had.”

Diarmuid shot Cú a remorseful glance, but he just brushed his teeth and settled into bed. Diarmuid cuddled up next to him, while Musashi and Artoria took the other bed, with Cú Lancer and Emiya crashing on the pull-out couch in the other room. Truthfully, while nice to have a real bed, after today, it burned Cú that the only reason they’d taken it was because he wouldn’t have fit.

He slept poorly. Even listening to Diarmuid’s gentle breathing didn’t help, and when the morning sunlight streamed into the room, he just lay there like a dead slug.

“We’re leaving in twenty minutes,” Diarmuid said. He sat next to Cú and kissed the top of his hand. “I made them promise we'd incorporate more activities you could participate in.”

Cú thought back to the show from yesterday; more of that didn’t sound very appealing. Forcing a smile, he said, “Why don’t I just stay here? There’s plenty of things to do around the hotel.”

“Listen, I promise it will be better.”

Cú shook his head. “Enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine.” He kept repeating this until Diarmuid surrendered.

Once everyone was gone, he made his way down to the hotel bar. Since it was still early in the day, the place was mostly deserted, occupied only by a bored bartender cleaning a martini glass and a young formally-dressed couple likely on a business trip. The man surreptitiously removed a wedding ring, and Cú rolled his eyes. He took his own place in one of the leather stools as far away as possible.

“ID?” asked the bartender.

Crap. Diarmuid had his. Cursing silently to himself, he decided Master would forgive him just this once. Even though he wasn’t very good at illusion magic, he doubted the meathead in front of him would be clairvoyant enough to see through it.

With his left hand he made a rune, and with his right he held out absolutely nothing.

The bartender nodded. “What will you have?”

“Whiskey. Cheapest stuff you've got."

He kept the drinks flowing throughout the day, sipping constantly while surveying the hotel lobby. In and out people went, carrying luggage and maps and sunblock and strollers. Everyone here for the "happiest" place on Earth.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” the bartender said as he wiped the polished mahogany, “what’s your routine? Your biceps are insane. Like I’ve been lifting for six months now, and I feel like I’m hardly gaining.”

Too buzzed to lie at this point, Cú stared him straight in the eye, and responded, “I was corrupted through the evils of the Holy Grail, then augmented from a wish made by a ruthless Celtic queen to fit her ideal of a perfect sex slave and conqueror.”

The guy shot him a weird look. “Dude, if you didn’t want to tell me, you could have just said so.”

Cú grunted in reply, downing the rest of his whiskey.

The shadows on the floor shifted as the day wore on. By the time the group returned, burdened with a satchel of materials, he felt sufficiently warm and fuzzy.

Diarmuid rushed forward. “Cú! Are you”—he looked at a nearby group of children, then lowered his voice—“drunk?”

“Only drunk on you,” he slurred. “I ran out of money.”

Diarmuid sighed. “I can see that.”

With an admirable amount of strength, he hoisted Cú to his feet. Cú, for his part, tried not to laugh when he caught sight of their reflection in the lobby mirror—him dwarfing the poor knight as they ambled toward the staircase.

Back in their hotel room, he nuzzled Diarmuid’s neck, licking and kissing at his Adam’s apple.

“Should we give you two some privacy,” his Lancer counterpart asked, quirking an eyebrow in amusement.

Diarmuid shoved Cú away. “No. He’s drunk. I’m putting him to bed.”

Despite his protests and pawing, he soon found himself tucked in, and within a few minutes, he was out like a light.

* * *

The next morning, Cú’s head buzzed. It had been a while since he’d had a hangover, even a mild one like this, and the unfamiliar sensation made him groan. How had he managed to accomplish it on only two hundred dollars of whiskey? Granted, the stuff had been cheap, and he had been a few bottles in, but… still.

He buried his face in his pillow, dozing while the others shuffled around the room. Diarmuid murmured something to them, and soon after, the door opened, then shut. He was alone.

Yawning, he rolled over, then frowned as Diarmuid still stood next to the bed. “What are you doing here?”

Diarmuid sat down. “I’m staying with you today. As much fun as I’ve had, it bothers me too much that you’ve been miserable this whole time, and I don’t want you to waste your vacation days sitting alone at a hotel bar.”

Nice as the sentiment was, Cú’s frown didn’t let up. “Aren’t you going to be sad you missed out?”

“Two days is enough for me. Besides, all the rides were just a reminder of your inability to participate. I’d rather you have a ride you can actually enjoy.”

Cú shrugged, rubbing his pounding temples. “Thanks. Guess we’ll just have to wait until technology can accommodate all body sizes.”

“No, you’re not getting it. The ride is right here.”

His brow furrowed. “Diarmuid, we’re in a hotel room. There’s no rides he—oh.” Understanding finally dawned on him at Diarmuid’s pointed stare. “_Ohhhhhh._” He grinned, sitting up as Diarmuid crawled closer, then pulled him into his lap. “I don’t know,” he purred, kissing him hungrily, “this whole trip I keep getting told I’m too big to fit.”

Diarmuid chuckled. “Don’t worry. I think I can make it work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I can't believe I actually did research to write this. As promised, here's a pic of [Cú with the little girl](https://ibb.co/hRJnLx4) and [Cú with Diarmuid in his lap](https://ibb.co/QD79s6M).
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	28. Hoodie Swap (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best thing in the world is wearing your significant other's sweatshirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current mood: a long bout of uninterrupted, internal screaming. Well, viceturtle drew me this adorable comic, and while I can never write something as cute as this, it's still nice to have a story to go along with the visuals. Check out the end notes for the comic. 
> 
> In the meantime, with all the crap going on, I needed something cute. If you do too, then enjoy!

It hadn’t mattered all that much to Cú when Master announced the distribution of personalized sweatshirts. He had enough knowledge of the modern area to know it was a style of casual clothing, usually worn in cooler weather, that favored comfort over aesthetic. A stupid prioritization for warriors in his opinion. He doubted he’d be wearing his.

Of course, he never did seem to take into account Diarmuid’s reactions. The man hadn’t said much on the topic, and he’d assumed that meant he was just as disinterested as Cú. Turned out, he never should have assumed in the first place.

“Cú!”

“Yes?” he said, already expecting some surprise outing or gift. But as he turned, he found the surprise one he never would have guessed.

His eyes widened at the sight in front of him. It was Diarmuid, mischievous and smiling, but that wasn’t what caught his attention. No, he was more interested in the enormous sweatshirt dwarfing the man’s frame.

It was like he’d been swallowed by a fluffy gray cloud. The material spilled all the way to his mid-thigh, covering anything he might have been wearing underneath (Cú honestly wasn’t sure he was wearing anything at all, but again, the blob of material was swallowing most of him), the sleeves reaching far past his fingertips. Two drawstrings, perfectly even in length, sprouted from the area around his collarbone, though they were partially obscured by Diarmuid holding his hands in front of him.

Cú wasn’t sure whether to laugh or choke, so instead he crossed over to Diarmuid’s side. “What are you wearing?”

“Master got us all sweatshirts,” Diarmuid said, waving his arms to let the sleeves flop around. It was actually kind of adorable, and Cú failed to hide a smile, even though internally he wanted to say, _Yes, I already knew she did. _

“Yours is too big.”

“This is yours!”

Okay, that caught him off guard. In hindsight, he probably should have guessed that, but he let out an inadvertent “Oh?” all the same.

“I couldn’t help myself,” Diarmuid gushed, still waving his arms, “yours is so big and comfy!” He laughed, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “I can’t really imagine myself fighting in something like this, but it’s wonderful to wear.” He wrapped his arms around himself. “It’s like wearing the physical embodiment of a hug.”

That was too much for Cú. He thought of Diarmuid in many ways—brave, heroic, charming, virtuous, and breathtakingly _beautiful_—but he rarely thought of him as adorable. It seemed almost patronizing to view another grown adult that way, but with the tousled hair and floppy sleeves, Cú could almost feel himself physically melt.

He rested a hand on Diarmuid’s shoulder, receiving a brief “Cú?” in response, before he placed a kiss on the shorter man’s forehead, right in the center. His lips barely even brushed the skin, but he was surprised at the effect it had. As he drew back, Diarmuid held his sleeves in front of his mouth, eyes wide and mouth open.

“What’s that face supposed to mean?” Cú teased.

He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. Gripping his face with the too-big sleeves, Diarmuid yanked him down for a kiss, this time on the lips instead of forehead.

Also this time, Cú did melt. He was a proverbial puddle in the smaller man’s sweatshirt embrace, so warm and secure, because Diarmuid did have a point—it really was like wearing the physical embodiment of a hug, but somehow fluffier and cozier.

“I’ll lend you mine,” Diarmuid said once they broke apart. He winked. “I bet you’ll look great in it.”

* * *

Cú immediately knew the funny look on Master’s face was directed at him. Scratching the back of his head, he muttered, “What?”

She frowned. “That’s not really covering much, y’know?”

“Yeah.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. True, Diarmuid’s sweatshirt covered hardly any of his abdomen, and the sleeves only reached past the edge of his elbow. It was pretty snug on his chest, but that just emphasized the hug-like quality. He loved it.

Folding his arms, he said, “You do realize I’m actually showing less skin than in my actual armor, right?”

The only response he received was a sigh. But that was alright. As long as he knew there was a certain Celtic knight running around in a sweatshirt several sizes too big, he was happy with his odd outfit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Here's the comic: [page 1](https://ibb.co/kBJs7GZ), [page 2](https://ibb.co/j473qY4), and [page 3](https://ibb.co/YL5nV7h).
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


	29. Apodyopsis (Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Definition: The act of mentally undressing someone; to imagine a person nude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay, everyone. Work has been very stressful, but I promise to get some more chapters your way! Also if you're interested in more Cú Alter/Diarmuid content and aren't subscribed to me, check out my new angsty story [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329486/chapters/64116541). 
> 
> Anyway, none of these drabbles are actually connected, but I guess this is a sort of sequel to Love Language that's a bit hornier. Honestly I just kind of wanted to write Cú worshipping Diarmuid, so... yeah.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

Diarmuid sighed. “Don’t play dumb,” he said, a little more irritably than he intended. “You know exactly what you’re doing.” He didn’t bother to wait for Cú’s response as he turned around to take his spot several feet away. Now in a crouch with his spear poised, he wanted to groan when Cú didn’t get into position. Instead, his gaze still lingered on Diarmuid in a way that was better suited for a private place than public.

They were in the sparring arena, their usual location for a typical afternoon when neither one was on a mission, working up a sweat to kill time. Unfortunately for Diarmuid, Cú also seemed to be getting worked up in a different sense. His eyes wandered over Diarmuid, from his face, down his chest, his arms, lower until—

“Cú!” he hissed. “Focus!”

The man jerked and moved into a fighting stance. Even so, his attention still strayed from his spear.

Diarmuid lunged forward, sweeping Gáe Dearg in an arc. Cú blocked, sidestepped, then jabbed, a move Diarmuid parried. He rushed forward again, this time using Cú’s spear as leverage to jump, slashing as he did so. The other man must have dodged, and he landed, ready for another attack, when he found his back pinned against Cú’s front.

He struggled as a hand grabbed his ass. “Stop it, we’re in public!” He broke free and glowered.

“No one saw what I was doing.”

Like earlier, Diarmuid didn’t dignify that with a response. As much as he hated to admit it, Cú staring at him—red eyes gleaming and pupils dilated—made the room feel a little too warm. Was the man in one of his states? Diarmuid coughed. “Are you actually going to spar?”

“Yes,” Cú said, then charged at him before he was even prepared.

He rolled to the side, deflected a blow, lunged and… found himself caught again, but this time with Cú kissing his neck, right at his pulse point. He scowled and twisted out of the man’s grasp. People were staring now, and the heat in his cheeks was even worse than before.

“What’s the matter?” He folded his arms. “Why are you acting like this?”

To his surprise, Cú appeared sheepish. “I… it’s just bad today. I’m trying, but you’re, well, very hard to resist when you move like that.”

Diarmuid’s annoyance ebbed. Truthfully, he’d been looking forward to sparring this afternoon, but the fact that Cú was being honest about the actual situation was something he didn’t want to waste. They could always spar another time; he wasn’t out to torture the poor man.

With a wave of his hand, he beckoned Cú to follow him. They strode out of the sparring arena, through a few hallways, until he found a large, empty closet far closer than the servant quarters. Checking that the coast was clear, they both entered, Cú ducking to avoid the low-hanging light bulb and shelves full of trash bags.

Diarmuid placed his hands on his hips. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Here?”

“It’s more private than the sparring arena, is it not?”

To that, Cú didn’t argue. He just greedily began peeling off Diarmuid’s armor, starting from the pauldron on his left shoulder, then his sleeves, then bracer, then top. When he started on the garter, Diarmuid grabbed his hair and pulled him downward.

“I am still a little annoyed you didn’t speak up sooner.” He tried to lean back against the shelving. “I could have helped you out before now.”

Contrary to him, Cú didn’t appear annoyed at all. “I’ll do better next time,” he purred, on his knees and kissing Diarmuid’s still-clothed thighs. At his height, he still had to hunch a little to reach, but bit by bit, he loosened the buckles and removed Diarmuid’s trousers.

Diarmuid sucked in a breath at the first feel of the tongue. His fingers ran through Cú’s hair, his muscles tightening as he was enveloped.

“It's okay to tell me when it’s bad,” he managed through gritted teeth. “I just want you to be open with me.” He panted, rocking his hips now in time with Cú’s ministrations, with the bob of his head and the heat of his breath.

Cú let up just long enough to hook one of Diarmuid’s legs and prop it on his shoulder. “It’s always bad,” he said quietly, then went right back to work.

The words ringing in his ears, Diarmuid stopped him. “Do you… actually want to do this?” He tilted Cú’s chin up so he could meet the ruby gaze. “I’m sorry if I was being too harsh. I know you don’t like talking about these things—”

“Shhh.” Cú pulled him closer, nuzzling his lower abdomen. “Stop feeling guilty.”

“I don’t want to take advantage of y—”

“You aren’t. Because no matter how bad it is, it never feels bad with you.”

Diarmuid couldn’t help but blush, still caressing the blue locks. “Don’t get all sappy on me,” he whispered, afraid his voice might crack if he spoke at full volume. “I might keel over from shock.”

“Then I won’t,” Cú said, grinning now that he was back in position. “There’s other things I’d rather be doing, anyway.”

Which he did quite well. Diarmuid arched his back, his breathing quickening as Cú worshipped every inch of him, a back and forth that turned him into putty, that had him gripping those blue locks like a lifeline, as if afraid he’d be swept away without them, and with every passing second, it seemed more and more likely that it would happen, that he would break in only the way Cú knew how to achieve.

When he did, he bit his lip to keep from crying out, desperate not to alert anyone outside as to their activities. Cú took everything in stride, then set back with a satisfied smile.

“My turn?” he asked eagerly.

Diarmuid rematerialized his armor, to which Cú’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, but not here.” Then without another word, he streaked out of the closet, holding back a laugh at the offended growl behind him.

Cú could have his revenge once he caught him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


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